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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bookofnarrativesOOcampiala 


A 

BOOK    OF    NARRATIVES 

EDITED  BY 
OSCAR  JAMES   CAMPBELL,  JR. 

ASSISTANT   PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH,    UNIVERSITY   OF  WISCONSIN 
AND 

RICHARD   ASHLEY  RICE 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH,  SMITH  COLLEGE 


D.   C.   HEATH   &   CO.,   PUBLISHERS 

BOSTON  NEW   YORK  CHICAGO 


Copyright,  191 7, 
By  D.  C.  Heath  &  Co. 

2E5 


PRINTED  IN   U.  S.  A. 


College 
Library 

33^1 
(LIST 


PREFACE 

The  editors  of  this  book  of  narratives  have  one  object  in 
view  —  to  lead  the  reader  to  see  life  closely  and  imaginatively. 
It  is  not  especially  planned  as  a  guide  for  young  writers  who 
want  to  sell  their  first  attempts  to  the  omnivorous  magazines; 
and  we  much  doubt  if  any  one  will  learn  from  it  the  temporary 
tricks  for  turning  out  "current  fiction." 

The  aim  of  all  great  literature  is  to  interpret  ife,  and  the 
special  aim  of  fiction  is  to  see  life  imaginatively.  Emile  Zola 
once  said  that  all  a  novel  can  hope  to  be  is  a  corner  of  nature 
seen  through  a  temperament.  To  inculcate  something  of  this 
supreme  art  of  seeing  life,  by  the  methods  of  fiction,  is  the 
purpose  of  the  present  collection. 

As  we  understand  it,  the  purpose  of  writing  courses  in 
college,  especially  while  drill  in  correct  usage  goes  on,  is  to  train 
the  logical  powers.  We  believe  that  there  can  be  no  better 
training  in  logic  than  that  which  exercises  the  faculties  for 
close  observation  of  life  and  for  constructive  imagination.  Our 
commentary  and  notes  are  entirely  devoted  to  defining  and 
illustrating  this  exercise.  We  hope  that  the  book  will  also 
be  of  help  in  the  general  study  of  fiction. 


3106042 


CONTENTS 

PART   I.     WHAT   IS    A    STORY? 

Introduction  :    What  is  a  Story  ? 

I.   The  Piece  of  String  .    .    .   Guy  de  Maupassant 
II.    Rhyolitic  Perlite  ....    Paul  Palmerton 

III.  Malachi's  Cove Anthony  Trollope 

IV.  L'Arrabbiata Paul  Heyse    .    . 

V.    The  Cask  of  Amontillado  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

VI.   La  Grande  Breteche     .    .    Honore  de  Balzac 


3 
16 

25 
31 
55 
77 
85 


PART  II.     HOW  TO  SEE  A  STORY  IN  EVERYDAY  LIFE 

Introduction:   How  to  See  a  Story  in  Every- 
day Life 109 

VII.    The  Fiancee Marguerite  Audoux    .    118 

VIII.   A   Page    from  the  Doctor's 

Life F.  W.  Stuart,  Jr.   .    .122 

IX.    The  Necklace Guy  de  Maupassant  .    127 

X.    To  Fool  the  Ignorant  .    .    Ernest  L.  Me  er   .    .    137 

XI.    Wellington Charles  M.  Flandreau  143 

XII.   Left  Behind Arthur  Ruhl  .    .    .    .156 

XIII.  The  Chaperon Alta  Brunt  Sembower.    177 

PART   III.     HOW   TO    SEE   LIFE   IMAGINATIVELY 

Introduction:    How  to  See  Life  Imaginatively  203 

XIV.  In  the  Firelight    ....    Margaret  Thomson     .    210 
XV.    City  Smoke Booth  Tarkington  .    .    214 

XVT.    Scenes  in  Factories   .    .    .    Margaret  Richardson.    219 


VI 


CONTENTS 


XVII.   The  Spirit  of  a  Great  City  Robert  Herrick  .    .    . 
XVIII.   Thunder  and  Lightning    .    Thomas  Hardy  .    .    . 
XIX.    Gerard  and  the  Bear    .    .    Charles  Reade    . 
XX.   Tad  Sheldon,  Second  Class 

Scout John  Fleming  Wilson 

XXI.    The  Glenmore  Fire  .    .    .   Robert  Herrick    .    .    . 


235 
240 
246 

251 
270 


PART   IV.     HOW   TO   DESCRIBE   CHARACTER 


Introduction:   How  to  Describe  Character 
XXII.   The  Brooke  Sisters  .    .    .   George  Eliot   .    . 

XXIII.  The  Baines  Sisters    .    .    .   Arnold  Bennett  . 

XXIV.  Annixter Frank  N orris.    . 

XXV.    Bathsheba     and     Gabriel 

Oak Thomas  Hardy  . 

XXVI.    Eugenie  and  Old  Grandet  Honore  de  Balzac 

XXVII.    Francois  Villon R.  L.  Stevenson  . 

XXVIII.   A  Lodging  for  the  Night   R.  L.  Stevenson  . 


•  279 
.  289 
.  298 

•  312 

•  329 

•  347 

•  363 

•  368 


PART   V.     HOW   TO   PRESENT   A   MORAL   ISSUE 

Introduction:    How  to  Present  a  Moral  Issue  393 

XXIX.  The  Greater  Love     .    .    .    Bartimeus 402 

XXX.  Vis  et  Vir Victor  Hugo  ....    418 

XXXI.  A  Dead  Issue Charles  M.  Flandreau  430 

XXXII.  The  Captain's  Vices  .    .    .  Francois  Coppee    .    .457 

XXXIII.  A  Coward Guy  de  Maupassant   .    469 

XXXIV.  Bazarov's  Duel Ivan  Turgenev   .    .    .    479 

XXXV.  An  Unfinished  Story    .    .    O.  Henry 490 


PART    I 
WHAT    IS    A    STORY 


PART    I 

INTRODUCTION 
WHAT  IS  A  STORY? 

i.   Plot 

A  story  is  composed  of  the  imagined  or  actual  facts  of  life 
arranged  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  human  conduct  more  intelli- 
gible and  more  entertaining  than  it  is  to  the  ordinary  observer. 
A  story  is  always  more  than  a  mere  copy  of  reality.  In  life 
events  follow  one  another;  but  except  for  this  line  of  sequence 
they  often  remain  formless.  A  narrative  which  merely  follows 
the  continuity  of  life  does  not  necessarily  have  plot.  A  strictly 
chronological  account  of  a  day's  excursion  or  picnic  may  well 
be  such  a  narrative.  As  soon,  however,  as  the  stuff  of  experi- 
ence is  deliberately  composed  so  that  it  tells  a  story,  it  forms  a 
narrative  with  plot.  Plot,  then,  is  the  formative  and  essential 
element  of  any  real  story. 

Many  students  believe  what  they  call  the  "invention"  of 
a  plot  to  be  a  supremely  difficult  task.  It  is,  of  course,  difficult 
to  be  logical.  But  inventing  a  plot  demands  only  a  logical 
consideration  of  what  one  sees  and  hears  in  everyday  existence. 
It  demands,  that  is,  a  curiosity  about  cause  and  effect  beyond 
what  is  superficially  evident.  To  the  mere  observer  life  is  but 
a  spectacle.  It  is  a  moving  picture  for  which  no  explanation 
has  been  provided.  As  soon  as  the  observer  begins  to  think 
logically  about  the  show  of  life  before  him  at  any  given  moment 
he  begins,  consciously  or  not,  to  plot  it.     He  cannot  know, 


4  WHAT  IS  A  STORY 

of  course,  all  of  the  past  which  controls  the  event  he  perceives, 
nor  can  he  divine  the  actual  future  it  will  create.  Yet  he 
knows  that  the  event  has  had  a  past  and  will  have  a  future. 
He  thdn  calls  upon  his  logical  faculty,  or,  as  some  prefer  to 
say,  his  imagination,  to  create  facts  as  nearly  as  possible  like 
the  reality  which  his  logical  curiosity  desires.  In  other  words, 
with  the  help  of  his  imagination  he  constructs  a  plot  in  which 
the  spectacle  that  arrested  his  attention  will  appear  as  part 
of  a  piece  of  fiction. 

This  method  of  transforming  part  of  the  show  of  life  into  a 
story  may  be  illustrated  by  assuming  that  the  initial  impulse 
toward  the  composition  of  Maupassant's  story,  A  Piece  of 
String,  was  observation  of  a  specific  event.  If  you  saw  a 
a  shabby  old  peasant  stoop  to  pick  up  something  in  the  road  and 
noticed  that  he  was  full  of  confusion  at  being  detected,  and 
then,  if  you  thought  nothing  further  about  the  incident,  you 
would  be  regarding  it  merely  as  a  spectacle.  But  if  you  had 
said  to  yourself,  "I'll  wager  that  old  fellow  has  found  a  purse 
and  that  he  doesn't  want  me  to  know  it,"  you  would  have 
been  at  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  inferences  which  could 
lead  to  the  plot  of  A  Piece  of  String.  You  might  proceed  by 
asking  yourself  a  number  of  questions.  "What  kind  of  fellow 
is  the  old  peasant?  What  gave  him  that  crafty  and  wary 
look?  What  was  it  he  picked  up,  anyway?  It  might  have 
been  a  worthless  object,  a  pretty  stone,  or  even  a  piece  of  string. 
Well,  he  would  never  be  able  to  convince  anyone  who  saw  his 
furtive  glance  that  he  had  not  found  something  valuable.  If 
I  had  lost  a  purse,  I  should  know  that  he  had  found  it.  I  should 
laugh  at  him  if  he  asserted  that  the  object  he  picked  up  was  only 
a  piece  of  string.  Yet  supposing  he  were  innocent,  would  not 
such  scorn  as  mine  at  his  protestations  of  innocence  worry  the 
stupid  old  fellow  literally  almost  to  death?" 

In  reflecting  in  this  fashion,  you  have  simply  given  free 
rein  to  a  natural  curiosity.     Yet  in  answering  these  questions 


PROBLEM  5 

satisfactorily  to  your  experience  of  life  and  accepting  the  sug- 
gestions as  imaginative  truth,  you  will  find  yourself  equipped 
with  all  the  necessary  elements  of  a  plot.  Sustained  and 
logical  reflection  upon  any  clearly  marked  incident  is  pretty 
sure  to  provide  the  mind  with  material  which  may  readily  be 
arranged  to  form  a  plot.  The  path  from  incident  seen,  heard,  or 
read,  to  a  plot  is  but  one  of  the  courses  which  lead  the  mind 
naturally  to  the  construction  of  facts  necessary  to  a  piece  of 
fiction. 

2.  Problem 

Every  story  which  is  not  the  mere  exhibition  of  a  quaint 
character  —  that  is,  a  character  sketch  —  presents  some 
problem.  This  does  not  mean  that  every  story  must  teach  a 
moral  lesson  or  suggest  desirable  conduct.  It  means  that  every 
piece  of  fiction  illustrates  what  the  author  believes  to  be  some 
general  truth  about  life.  Indeed,  the  desire  to  present  such  a 
truth  may  be  the  initial  impulse  toward  writing  a  story.  Let 
us  suppose  that  Maupassant  from  his  reflective  observation  of 
life  had  arrived  at  the  belief  that  many  people  suffer  cruelly 
from  unjust  suspicion.  The  irony  of  his  own  futile  efforts  to 
explain  away  some  unmerited  accusation  by  the  trivial  and 
inadequate  truth  may  have  struck  him.  He  determines, 
therefore,  to  write  a  story  illustrating  concretely  this  conclusion 
of  his.  Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  he  sets  out  to  find  just  the 
chain  of  events  which  would  bring  out  most  sharply  and  most 
ironically  the  whole  point.  Those  which  he  finally  determines 
upon  are  perfectly  suited  to  making  the  problem  concrete  without 
losing  for  it  any  of  its  vital  significance.  The  object  picked 
up  is  the  least  valuable  in  the  world;  consequently,  no  one  will 
believe  the  man  who  asserts  that  it  was  this  instead  of  a  purse 
that  he  found.  Maitre  Hauchecorne  is  exactly  the  sort  of  man 
to  treasure  such  a  trivial  object,  and  he  is  just  crafty  enough 
to  bring  the  suspicion  of   his  fellows  upon  him.    The  power 


6  WHAT  IS  A  STORY 

of  this  story  lies  in  the  exquisite  fitness  of  the  plot  in  all  its 
circumstances  to  the  essential  meaning  of  the  fable. 

The  Necklace,  another  story  of  Maupassant's  (appearing 
in  Part  II  of  this  volume),  can  be  regarded  as  illustrating  this 
same  method  of  finding  a  plot.  Nearly  everyone  must  have 
figured  to  himself  the  anguish  and  real  financial  hardship  that 
might  come  from  the  loss  of  some  valuable  borrowed  article. 
That  is  a  problem  that  we  have  all  faced  imaginatively.  You 
may  have  lost  a  valuable  cuff-button,  an  heirloom  borrowed  from 
one  of  your  friends.  You  worry  greatly  about  the  loss,  but 
manage  to  have  another  made  so  much  like  the  original  that 
the  owner  never  suspects  the  substitution.  This  suggests  to 
your  mind  the  common  problem,  but  it  is  not  pointed  enough  as 
an  illustration  to  make  the  idea  seem  memorable.  The  events 
must  affect  more  profoundly  the  lives  of  the  actors  in  the  drama. 
Accordingly  the  object  chosen  becomes  a  necklace  so  valuable 
as  to  require  a  large  sum  of  money  to  replace  it,  and  Mme. 
Loisel,  the  loser,  is  made  a  person  in  such  straitened  circum- 
stances that  enormous  sacrifices  and  efforts  are  needed  if  she  is 
to  pay  for  a  new  necklace.  These  details  in  themselves  deepen 
the  current  of  the  story.  The  discovery  that  the  original  neck- 
lace was  paste  and  worth  only  a  trifling  sum  does  not  change 
the  nature  of  the  problem;  but  by  making  the  supreme  efforts 
of  Mme.  Loisel  entirely  unnecessary,  this  invention  gives  the 
story  a  pessimistic  irony  which  renders  it  a  supremely  vivid 
presentation  of  the  problem. 

In  both  of  these  examples  it  has  been  assumed  that  the 
author  found  a  story  to  illustrate  an  idea  which  life  had  taught 
him.  Yet  whatever  the  author's  initial  impulse,  his  story 
will  inevitably  present  a  problem.  Even  when  this  impulse 
is  the  more  usual  one  of  an  incident  heard  or  actually  beheld, 
the  incident  will  fail  to  seem  material  for  a  story  until  it  can  be 
regarded  as  in  some  sense  typical.  Only  then  does  it  possess 
the  meaning  which  relates  it  to  the  author's  experience  and 


CHARACTER  7 

illumines  that  of  his  readers.  In  any  case  literary  inspiration 
comes  to  those  who  through  their  steady  observation  of  life  see 
in  it  illustrations  of  the  ideas  which  thoughtful  living  has  given 
them.  The  problem  of  a  story  in  this  sense  is  its  informing 
spirit,  as  the  plot  is  its  body. 

3.  Character 

The  plots  of  stories,  we  have  found,  are  dead  things  unless 
manifestations  of  characteristic  action  of  men  and  women. 
The  problem  is  arresting  only  if  it  illustrates  some  recognizable 
situation  of  human  nature.  The  part  that  character  plays 
in  any  constructed  story  is  thus  obviously  large.  For  events  are 
interesting  and  convincing  only  when  they  are  the  natural 
expression  of  the  characters  who  enact  them. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  plot  of  A  Piece  of  String  was  brought 
to  Maupassant's  attention  by  hearing  an  anecdote  related. 
The  incident  as  it  was  told  concerned  a  young  man  who  had  found 
some  trivial  object  on  the  road,  who  had  been  suspected,  by 
one  who  saw  him,  of  having  found  a  lost  purse,  and  who  had  been 
unable  to  convince  the  police  of  his  innocence.  This  might 
well  strike  the  trained  writer  as  material  for  fiction.  Yet 
until  he  has  chosen  a  character  to  play  the  central  part,  he  will 
regard  its  possibilities  as  both  vague  and  various.  Any  writer 
attempting  to  work  this  suggestion  into  story  form  will  have  to 
search  his  own  experience  for  the  most  suitable  character  he 
can  find  there.  The  author  of  Rhyolitic  Perlite,  an  American 
college  student  given  this  plot  to  make  over,  naturally  thinks  of 
one  of  the  most  peculiar  of  his  professors  —  a  crabbed  and 
self-centered  geologist.  This  man  is  made  to  pick  up  a  stone 
valuable  only  to  a  curious  scientist,  and  the  story  becomes  a 
chapter  in  his  life.  Maupassant,  for  his  part,  on  hearing  the 
suppositious  incident,  at  first  may  have  conceived  the  story 
as  being  that  of  a  young  man  whose  career  was  ruined  by  the 
suspicion  cast  upon  him.    This  young  man  may  have  been 


8  WHAT  IS  A  STORY 

imagined  as  robbed  of  the  confidence  of  all  his  fellow  townsmen, 
deserted  by  his  sweetheart,  and  finally  forced  to  leave  the  town 
in  disgrace.  However,  as  soon  as  the  author  determined  that 
the  object  picked  up  should  be  a  piece  of  string,  he  saw  that 
an  old  man,  a  peasant  rendered  avaricious  and  crafty  by  his 
hard  struggle  with  life,  would  be  a  better  hero  than  the  young 
man  he  had  first  selected.  Maltre  Hauchecorne,  once  definitely 
conceived,  brings  with  him,  as  it  were,  many  of  the  details  of 
the  story.  The  setting  is  one  in  which  he  would  inevitably 
move.  The  market  at  Goderville,  the  smells  of  the  animals, 
the  inn,  and  the  countrymen  crowded  there  are  the  environ- 
ment which  Maitre  Hauchecorne  demanded  if  he  were  to  live 
at  all.  As  soon  as  a  character  is  definitely  conceived,  its  domi- 
nating power  over  the  other  elements  of  the  story  is  a  fact  that 
must  be  early  recognized  by  a  young  writer  seeking  to  compose 
life  as  he  knows  it  into  a  narrative.  Henry  James  has  confessed 
that  his  stories  usually  began  with  a  character  who  assumed 
so  vivid  a  reality  that  it  fairly  demanded  vitalizing  action  for 
itself.  His  stories  are  thus  the  inevitable  result  of  characters 
grown  too  strong  to  lie  quiescent  in  the  brain  of  their 
creator. 

It  is  well  to  remember  that  a  story  is  effective  only  if  the 
characters  are  obviously  fitted  to  enact  the  events  of  the  plot 
and  if  they  can  bring  with  them  a  milieu  full  of  the  circumstance 
and  detail  of  everyday  life.  Only  then  will  they  seem  like  real 
men  and  women. 

An  author's  mastery  over  the  characters  in  his  story  depends, 
of  course,  on  the  ability  to  draw  from  his  thoughtful  obser- 
vation of  men  and  women.  He  must  have  learned  to  see  not 
only  the  picturesque  idiosyncrasies  which  make  them  distinctive 
and  individual,  but  also  the  hidden  springs  of  action  —  the 
typical  motives  which  make  them  recognizable  like  other  men. 
Uriah  Heep,  in  David  Copperfield,  by  rubbing  his  hands,  writh- 
ing like  a  snake,  and  protesting  his  humility,  arrests  our  atten- 


CHARACTER  9 

tion  and  suggests  his  nature,  but  he  wins  our  comprehension 
by  allowing  us  to  know  that,  being  a  hypocrite,  he  is  using 
his  humility  as  a  cloak  to  spread  over  his  wicked  schemes  to  get 
Mr.  Wakefield  into  his  sinister  control  and  force  a  marriage 
with  Agnes.  The  attempt  to  write  fiction  is  a  direct  aid  to  the 
comprehension  of  life,  because  it  immediately  stimulates  a  closer 
observation  of  men  and  a  more  sustained  and  profound  con- 
sideration of  their  actions. 

Despite  the  necessity  for  the  individual  to  draw  almost 
entirely  upon  his  own  critical  experience  in  dealing  with  the 
characters  in  his  stories,  a  few  practical  suggestions  about  the 
arrangement  of  material  drawn  from  life  may  be  given.  Cer- 
tain facts  about  the  important  characters  in  every  piece  of  fiction 
all  readers  wish  to  know. 

First  in  importance,  perhaps,  are  personal  facts.  The 
reader  must  know  enough  of  a  character's  appearance,  his  man- 
nerisms, and  even  his  intellectual  peculiarities  to  be  able  to 
visualize  him  or  at  least  to  distinguish  him  as  an  individual. 
In  particular,  the  reader  must  apprehend  clearly  the  traits 
of  character  which  are  largely  to  motivate  the  plot.  Mau- 
passant in  both  A  Coward  and  The  Necklace  begins  with  the 
personal  facts  about  the  central  characters  and  leads  up  to  that 
trait  which  is  to  affect  the  plot  vitally.  In  the  remark  of 
Viscount  de  Signoles,  "If  ever  I  fight  a  duel,  I  shall  choose 
pistols.  With  that  weapon  I  am  sure  of  killing  my  man," 
we  see  all  the  bravado  and  social  bluster  which  is  to  precipitate 
the  tragic  and  ironical  catastrophe.  Yet  neither  in  this  case 
nor  in  that  of  Mme.  Loisel  does  the  author  attempt  an  ex- 
haustive characterization  in  the  preliminary  exposition.  A 
judicious  author  will  carry  his  reader  as  soon  as  possible  into  the 
actual  story.  He  will  allow  the  characters  to  reveal  much  of 
their  nature  in  their  introductory  speeches  and  progressively  in 
their  action.  The  Viscount's  conduct  at  Tortoni's  tells  really 
no  more  about  his  character  than  is  given  in  the  exposition, 


io  WHAT  IS  A  STORY 

yet  without  the  preliminary  description  his  action  in  provoking 
the  duel  would  have  seemed  almost  insanely  precipitate.  The 
Viscount's  baseness  is,  of  course,  not  completely  revealed 
until  the  climax  itself  is  reached.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  Every 
story  in  which  the  relation  between  character  and  plot  is  prop- 
erly vital  will  be  a  revelation  of  the  nature  of  the  principal 
figures.  In  general,  then,  if  the  salient  personal  facts  of  the 
characters  be  presented  in  the  introductory  exposition,  the 
figures  themselves  can  be  trusted  to  reveal  their  inner  natures 
while  they  play,  their  parts  in  the  actual  story. 

4.  Setting 

The  setting  of  a  story,  as  we  have  suggested,  is  largely  deter- 
mined by  the  important  characters.  Maitre  Hauchecorne 
inevitably  brought  with  him  the  life  of  a  small  French  village; 
Professor  Lee  in  Rhyolitic  Perlite,  the  life  of  a  middle- western  col- 
lege town.  Yet  the  choice  of  the  actual  picturesque  details  of 
the  setting  is  a  separate  and  independent  act  of  artistic 
creation.  Nothing  in  Maitre  Hauchecorne 's  nature  forced 
the  author's  selection  of  the  market  day  in  Goderville. 
Yet  the  various  scenes  connected  with  the  market  stir  all 
the  natural  environment  of  the  old  peasant  into  vivid  and 
picturesque  life.  The  scene  in  turn  communicates  its  vitality 
to  the  characters. 

Circus  day  in  Perry  town  doubtless  seemed  to  the  author  of 
Rhyolitic  Perlite  the  obvious  American  equivalent  of  market  day 
in  rural  France.  It  offered,  too,  a  similar  opportunity  for  de- 
tecting the  central  character  in  his  suspicious  act  and  for  giving 
it  the  necessary  publicity.  Besides,  it  presents  the  reader 
with  a  variety  of  details  which  are  in  themselves  entertaining. 
But  it  does  more.  These  details  adventitious  to  the  plot  evoke 
much  that  is  typical  and  recurrent  in  the  life  of  a  small  town  in 
the  Middle  West.  The  sense  of  amused  recognition  which  the 
reader  feels  aids  in  making  the  story  utterly  real  for  him.    These 


THE  PRINCIPLE  OF  EMPHASIS  n 

inorganic  picturesque  details  combine  to  make  what  is  called 
local  color.  The  proper  use  of  local  color  is  indicated  from  its 
position  in  the  above  story.  It  ought  seldom  to  be  an  end  in 
itself  or  to  engage  the  author's  attention  until  the  characters 
and  their  story  have  assumed  definite  outline  in  his  mind. 
Local  color  is  interesting  because  it  entertains  the  reader  at 
the  same  moment  when  it  is  satisfying  his  sense  of  recognition. 

5.   The  Principle  of  Emphasis 

Everyone,  then,  who  attempts  to  compose  reality  into  nar- 
rative must  consider  as  elements  of  his  story,  plot,  problem, 
character,  and  setting.  The  question  of  the  most  effective 
arrangement  of  these  elements  of  a  story  is  largely  one  of 
obtaining  proper  emphasis.  Plot,  problem,  character,  and  set- 
ting may  enter  the  mind  of  an  author  in  any  order.  When 
they  have  been  combined,  however,  to  such  an  extent  that 
the  author  can  see  clearly  the  outline  of  his  story,  he  must 
decide  how  to  direct  the  reader's  attention  to  those  parts 
of  his  narrative  which  he  considers  most  important.  These 
are  commonly  the  beginning  of  the  action,  the  climax,  and 
the  denouement. 

Every  story  begins  with  a  description  of  some  fairly  well 
established  condition  of  affairs.  Into4  this  status  quo  comes 
some  person  or  event  that  disturbs  the  stability  and  compels 
a  readjustment  of  the  relations  between  the  characters.  Such 
an  event  marks  the  beginning  of  the  narrative  action.  The 
climax  is  the  point  at  which  the  struggle  between  the  forces  of 
conservation  and  those  of  disintegration  is  most  intense.  It 
is  the  point  toward  which  all  the  events  in  the  story  converge 
either  in  prophecy  or  in  retrospect.  The  denouement  is  that 
moment  in  the  story  at  which  the  nature  of  the  new  status  quo 
determined  by  the  story  is  made  clear.  All  of  these  points 
deserve  a  varying  degree  of  emphasis. 

The  climax  is  obviously  the  crucial  point  in  a  narrative. 


12  WHAT  IS  A  STORY 

Of  this  the  author  must  have  a  definite  idea  before  he  begins 
to  write  a  word.  Toward  this  summit  the  reader  must  be 
led  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  story  with  quickening  interest. 
It  must  receive,  therefore,  most  emphatic  attention.  The  prob- 
lem, then,  that  confronts  every  author  of  any  short  story  at 
the  threshold  of  his  tale  is,  "How  can  I  introduce  character, 
setting,  and  other  preliminary  circumstance  to  my  reader  without 
emphasizing  them  to  such  an  extent  that  his  sense  of  progress 
toward  a  climax  will  be  destroyed?" 

Trollope's  method  of  solving  this  common  problem  in  Mal- 
achi's  Cove  is  simple,  natural,  and  consecutive  enough  to  be 
studied  as  a  model.  He  begins  with  a  description  of  the  actual 
setting  of  the  story  —  first  of  the  wild,  precipitous  coast  of 
Cornwall,  and  then  of  the  fissure  in  the  rock  in  which  old 
Malachi  lived  and  from  which  he  eked  his  precarious  living. 
Yet  the  mind  does  not  rest  in  these  details  as  an  end  in  them- 
selves. They  give  us  a  forward  view  by  suggesting  the  nature 
of  the  characters  to  appear.  We  expect  some  one  savage  and 
elemental,  and  Mally  does  not  disappoint  us.  In  the  some- 
what extended  description  of  her,  Trollope  is  able  to  introduce 
further  details  of  the  setting,  which  would  have  been  tiresome 
and  confusing  if  given  all  at  once  at  the  beginning.  Up  to  this 
point  the  author  has  been  engaged  in  pure  exposition.  He  has 
been  describing  the  existing  state  of  affairs  which  some  external 
force  is  to  provoke  into  the  movement  of  a  story.  This  exciting 
influence  is  Barty  Gunliffe  and  his  insistence  upon  gathering 
seaweed  in  Mally's  Cove.  In  the  changes  which  Barty's 
appearance  will  produce  in  the  life  of  Mally  we  realize  that  our 
story  will  lie. 

Laurella  in  L'Arrabbiata  is  almost  exactly  the  same  sort 
of  character  as  Mally.  Her  story  is  introduced,  however, 
in  a  different  way.  The  various  stages  of  the  narrative  are 
not  so  clearly  indicated  as  those  in  Malachi' s  Cove.  The 
landscape  which  Paul  Heyse  describes  bears  no  intrinsic  emo- 


THE  PRINCIPLE  OF  EMPHASIS  13 

tional  relation  to  the  girl.  It  is  designed  partly  to  create  atmos- 
phere and  partly  to  serve  as  a  sort  of  diagram  of  the  subsequent 
actions  of  the  characters.  Even  when  Laurella  appears,  the 
reader  does  not  know  what  the  scene  of  the  story  is  to  be  or 
with  whom  her  fortunes  are  to  be  complicated.  This  obscurity 
does  not  establish  the  inferiority  of  V 'Arrabbiata  in  proper 
emphasis.  It  merely  shows  that  various  points  of  incidence 
of  that  emphasis  are  less  clearly  marked. 

Barty's  first  appearance,  then,  is  clearly  a  point  of  emphasis. 
It  marks  the  beginning  of  the  action.  From  that  moment  the 
intensity  of  the  story  is  heightened.  The  speed  of  the  narrative 
movement  is  quickened.  Introduction  at  this  point  of  explana- 
tory material,  or  entirely  new  strains  of  narrative  interest, 
would  throw  out  of  proportion  all  emphasis  hitherto  made. 
The  story  must  move  upward  in  interest  to  the  climax  already 
definitely  conceived.  In  Malachi's  Cove  the  interest  grows 
through  the  conversation  which  the  boy  and  the  girl  have  in 
the  cove.  Through  it  the  wild  and  elemental  obstinacy 
of  the  girl  becomes  increasingly  evident  until  we  are  sure  that 
her  outraged  sense  of  justice  will  express  itself  in  some  violent 
act.  So  we  are  ready  for  the  climax.  Lamella's  conversation 
with  the  priest  serves  the  same  purpose  of  leading  us  to  the 
climax,  though  in  a  less  definite  way.  Her  vehement  fear 
of  love  leads  us  to  expect  some  action  of  ferocity  in  her  efforts 
to  escape  it. 

In  both  the  stories,  as  soon  as  the  reader  is  made  to  realize 
that  an  exciting  incident  of  some  sort  is  bound  to  come,  the 
author  makes  a  distinct  pause,  In  so  doing  he  is  observing 
a  fundamental  principle  of  emphasis.  He  is  holding  the  reader 
in  suspense.  Trollope  describes  leisurely  the  stormy  sea,  the 
boy  and  the  girl  at  their  dangerous  work,  and  finally  the  seeth- 
ing pool;  Heyse  describes  in  a  leisurely  fashion  Antonio's  wait- 
ing for  Laurella.  But  in  each  story,  as  soon  as  the  real  action 
of  the  climax  begins,  events  are  made  to  move  very  rapidly. 


i4  WHAT  IS  A  STORY 

After  Barty  has  slipped  on  the  edge  of  the  pool,  or  Antonio 
has  roughly  seized  Laurella,  the  speed  and  intensity  of  the 
narrative  is  unchecked,  until  the  action  of  the  climax  reaches 
an  end.  In  Malachi's  Cove  this  end  occurs  when  Mally's 
grandfather  meets  her  with  the  apparently  lifeless  Barty,  in 
V  Arrabbiata  when  Antonio  and  Laurella  reach  shore. 

After  the  climax  has  been  reached,  the  intensity  and  speed 
of  the  narration  should  subside  immediately.  Only  thus  will 
the  necessary  contrast  be  established  that  gives  the  desired  em- 
phasis to  the  decisive  moment.  The  final  part  of  a  story  is 
called  variously  the  falling  action,  the  outcome,  or  the  close. 
The  events  which  comprise  this  part  of  the  tale  are  inevitably 
the  results  of  the  decision  made  in  the  climax,  yet  they  need 
not  be  obvious  at  that  moment.  In  Malachi's  Cove,  a  new 
element  of  suspense  is  introduced  after  the  climax  has  been 
passed,  in  that  we  are  in  doubt  whether  Mally  will  free  herself 
from  the  unjust  accusation  or  not.  In  L ' Arrabbiata  our  minds 
are  not  entirely  at  rest  until  we  know  whether  Antonio  is  to 
win  Laurella  or  not. 

The  actual  close  of  Malachi's  Cove  is  a  bit  old-fashioned. 
It  leaves  nothing  to  the  imagination.  The  older  writers  of 
narrative  felt  that  they  must  lead  the  readers  to  a  new  status 
quo  as  fixed  and  as  stable  as  the  one  which  was  disrupted  into 
the  action  of  the  story.  Many  modern  writers  would  have 
omitted  Trollope's  last  three  paragraphs.  The  close  of  VAr- 
rabbiata is  less  rigid.  The  imagination  is  left  with  work  to 
do  in  the  establishment  of  a  new  equilibrium. 

The  analysis  of  these  two  stories  has  perhaps  suggested 
methods  of  giving  the  various  elements  of  a  narrative  proper 
emphasis.  Only  when  the  attention  of  the  reader  is  attracted 
in  greater  degree  to  those  events  which  the  author  considers  of 
great  importance  has  he  grasped  the  writer's  artistic  intention. 
Unless  composed  in  accordance  with  these  principles  of  em- 
phasis,  a  narrative  cannot  reveal  its  meaning. 


/ 


THE   PRINCIPLE   OF   EMPHASIS  15 

The  stories  which  follow  in  this  section  are  arranged  in  pairs. 
Both  stories  in  a  group  are  much  alike  in  one  of  their  narrative 
elements.  In  comparing  and  contrasting  the  two  similar  stories, 
the  student  may  be  able  to  appraise  the  value  of  the  component 
parts  of  a  tale  and  thus  to  discover  what  comprises  originality 
in  viewing  life  and  in  composing  it  into  narrative. 


I.  THE  PIECE  OF  STRING1 

Guy  de  Maupassant 

It  was  market-day,  and  over  all  the  roads  round  Goderville 
the  peasants  and  their  wives  were  coming  towards  the  town. 
The  men  walked  easily,  lurching  the  whole  body  forward  at 
every  step.  Their  long  legs  were  twisted  and  deformed  by  the 
slow,  painful  labors  of  the  country :  —  by  bending  over  to 
plough,  which  is  what  also  makes  their  left  shoulders  too  high 
and  their  figures  crooked;  and  by  reaping  corn,  which  obliges 
them  for  steadiness'  sake  to  spread  their  knees  too  wide.  Their 
starched  blue  blouses,  shining  as  though  varnished,  ornamented 
at  collar  and  cuffs  with  little  patterns  of  white  stitch-work, 
and  blown  up  big  around  their  bony  bodies,  seemed  exactly 
like  balloons  about  to  soar,  but  putting  forth  a  head,  two  arms, 
and  two  feet. 

Some  of  these  fellows  dragged  a  cow  or  a  calf  at  the  end  of 
a  rope.  And  just  behind  the  animal,  beating  it  over  the  back 
with  a  leaf-covered  branch  to  hasten  its  pace,  went  their  wives, 
carrying  large  baskets  from  which  came  forth  the  heads  of  chick- 
ens or  the  heads  of  ducks.  These  women  walked  with  steps 
far  shorter  and  quicker  than  the  men;  their  figures,  withered 
and  upright,  were  adorned  with  scanty  little  shawls  pinned  over 
their  flat  bosoms;  and  they  enveloped  their  heads  each  in  a 
white  cloth,  close  fastened  round  the  hair  and  surmounted  by 
a  cap. 

Now  a  char-a-banc  passed  by,  drawn  by  a  jerky-paced  nag. 
It  shook  up  strangely  the  two  men  on  the  seat.     And  the  woman 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Odd  Number  with  the  kind  permission  of  Harper  and 
Brothers.      This  story  is  discus.ed  at  length  in  the  lnt.oduction,  pages  4-5,  7-8. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  17 

at  the  bottom  of  the  cart  held  fast  to  its  sides  to  lessen  the 
hard  joltings. 

In  the  market-place  at  Goderville  was  a  great  crowd,  a 
mingled  multitude  of  men  and  beasts.  The  horns  of  cattle, 
the  high  and  long  napped  hats  of  wealthy  peasants,  the  head- 
dresses of  the  women,  came  to  the  surface  of  that  sea.  And 
voices  clamorous,  sharp,  shrill,  made  a  continuous  and  savage 
din.  Above  it  a  huge  burst  of  laughter  from  the  sturdy  lungs 
of  a  merry  yokel  would  sometimes  sound,  and  sometimes  a  long 
bellow  from  a  cow  tied  fast  to  the  wall  of  a  house. 

It  all  smelled  of  the  stable,  of  milk,  of  hay,  and  of  perspi- 
ration, giving  off  that  half -human,  half-animal  odor  which  is 
peculiar  to  the  men  of  the  fields. 

Maitre  Hauchecorne,  of  Breaute,  had  just  arrived  at  Goder- 
ville, and  was  taking  his  way  towards  the  square,  when  he 
perceived  on  the  ground  a  little  piece  of  string.  Maitre  Hauche- 
corne, economical,  like  all  true  Normans,  reflected  that  every- 
thing was  worth  picking  up  which  could  be  of  any  use;  and 
he  stooped  down  —  but  painfully,  because  he  suffered  from 
rheumatism.  He  took  the  bit  of  thin  cord  from  the  ground, 
and  was  carefully  preparing  to  roll  it  up  when  he  saw  Maitre 
Malandain,  the  harness-maker,  on  his  door-step,  looking  at 
him.  They  had  once  had  a  quarrel  about  a  halter,  and  they  had 
remained  angry,  bearing  malice  on  both  sides.  Maitre  Hauche- 
corne was  overcome  with  a  sort  of  shame  at  being  seen  by  his 
enemy  looking  in  the  dirt  so  for  a  bit  of  string.  He  quickly 
hid  his  find  beneath  his  blouse;  then  in  the  pocket  of  his  breeches; 
then  pretended  to  be  still  looking  for  something  on  the  ground 
which  he  did  not  discover;  and  at  last  went  off  towards  the 
market-place,  with  his  head  bent  forward,  and  a  body  almost 
doubled  in  two  by  rheumatic  pains. 

He  lost  himself  immediately  in  the  crowd,  which  was  clam- 
orous, slow,  and  agitated  by  interminable  bargains.  The 
peasants  examined  the  cows,  went  off,  came  back,  always  in 


1 8  THE  PIECE  OF  STRING 

great  perplexity  and  fear  of  being  cheated,  never  quite  daring 
to  decide,  spying  at  the  eye  of  the  seller,  trying  ceaselessly  to 
discover  the  tricks  of  the  man  and  the  defect  in  the  beast. 

The  women,  having  placed  their  great  baskets  at  their  feet, 
had  pulled  out  the  poultry,  which  lay  upon  the  ground,  tied 
by  the  legs,  with  eyes  scared,  with  combs  scarlet. 

They  listened  to  propositions,  maintaining  their  prices,  with 
a  dry  manner,  with  an  impassible  face;  or,  suddenly,  perhaps, 
deciding  to  take  the  lower  price  which  was  offered,  they  cried 
out  to  the  customer,  who  was  departing  slowly: 

"All  right,  I'll  let  you  have  them,  Mait'  Anthime." 

Then,  little  by  little,  the  square  became  empty,  and  when 
the  Angelus  struck  mid-day  those  who  lived  at  a  distance 
poured  into  the  inns. 

At  Jourdain's  the  great  room  was  filled  with  eaters,  just  as 
the  vast  court  was  filled  with  vehicles  of  every  sort  —  wagons, 
gigs,  char-a-bancs,  tilburys,  tilt-carts  which  have  no  name, 
yellow  with  mud,  misshapen,  pieced  together,  raising  their 
shafts  to  heaven  like  two  arms,  or  it  may  be  with  their  nose  in 
the  dirt  and  their  rear  in  the  air. 

Just  opposite  to  where  the  diners  were  at  table  the  huge 
fireplace,  full  of  clear  flame,  threw  a  lively  heat  on  the  backs  of 
those  who  sat  along  the  right.  Three  spits  were  turning, 
loaded  with  chickens,  with  pigeons,  and  with  joints  of  mutton, 
and  a  delectable  odor  of  roast  meat,  and  of  gravy  gushing  over 
crisp  brown  skin,  took  wing  from  the  hearth,  kindled  merriment, 
caused  mouths  to  water. 

All  the  aristocracy  of  the  plough  were  eating  there,  at  Mait' 
Jourdain's,  the  innkeeper's,  a  dealer  in  horses  also,  and  a  sharp 
fellow  who  had  made  a  pretty  penny  in  his  day. 

The  dishes  were  passed  round,  were  emptied,  with  jugs  of 
yellow  cider.  Every  one  told  of  his  affairs,  of  his  purchases 
and  his  sales.  They  asked  news  about  the  crops.  The  weather 
was  good  for  green  stuffs,  but  a  little  wet  for  wheat. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  19 

All  of  a  sudden  the  drum  rolled  in  the  court  before  the  house. 
Every  one,  except  some  of  the  most  indifferent,  was  on  his  feet 
at  once,  and  ran  to  the  door,  to  the  windows,  with  his  mouth 
still  full  and  his  napkin  in  his  hand. 

When  the  public  crier  had  finished  his  tattoo  he  called  forth 
in  a  jerky  voice,  making  his  pauses  out  of  time: 

"Be  it  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  Goderville,  and  in  general 
to  all  —  persons  present  at  the  market,  that  there  has  been  lost 
this  morning,  on  the  Beuzeville  road,  between  —  nine  and  ten 
o'clock,  a  pocket-book  of  black  leather,  containing  five  hundred 
francs  and  business  papers.  You  are  requested  to  return  it  — 
to  the  mayor's  office,  at  once,  or  to  Maitre  Fortune  Houlbreque, 
of  Manneville.    There  will  be  twenty  francs  reward." 

Then  the  man  departed.  They  heard  once  more  at  a  distance 
the  dull  beatings  on  the  drum  and  the  faint  voice  of  the  crier. 

Then  they  began  to  talk  of  this  event,  reckoning  up  the 
chances  which  Maitre  Houlbreque  had  of  finding  or  of  not 
finding  his  pocket-book  again. 

And  the  meal  went  on. 

They  were  finishing  their  coffee  when  the  corporal  of  gen- 
darmes appeared  on  the  threshold. 

He  asked: 

"Is  Maitre  Hauchecorne,  of  Breaute,  here?" 

Maitre  Hauchecorne,  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
answered: 

"Here  I  am." 

And  the  corporal  resumed: 

"Maitre  Hauchecorne,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  come 
with  me  to  the  mayor's  office?  M.  le  Maire  would  like  to 
speak  to  you." 

The  peasant,  surprised  and  uneasy,  gulped  down  his  little 
glass  of  cognac,  got  up,  and,  even  worse  bent  over  than  in  the 
morning,  since  the  first  steps  after  a  rest  were  always  particu- 
larly difficult,  started  off,  repeating: 


20  THE  PIECE  OF  STRING 

"Here  I  am,  here  I  am." 

And  he  followed  the  corporal. 

The  mayor  was  waiting  for  him,  seated  in  an  arm-chair. 
He  was  the  notary  of  the  place,  a  tall,  grave  man  of  pompous 
speech. 

"Maitre  Hauchecorne,"  said  he,  "this  morning,  on  the 
Beuzeville  road,  you  were  seen  to  pick  up  the  pocket-book 
lost  by  Maitre  Houlbreque,  of  Manneville." 

The  countryman,  speechless,  regarded  the  mayor,  frightened 
already  by  this  suspicion  which  rested  on  him  he  knew  not 
why. 

"I,  I  picked  up  that  pocket-book?" 

"Yes,  you." 

"I  swear  I  didn't  even  know  nothing  about  it  at  all." 

"You  were  seen." 

"They  saw  me,  me?    Who  is  that  who  saw  me?" 

"M.  Malandain,  the  harness-maker." 

Then  the  old  man  remembered,  understood,  and,  reddening 
with  anger: 

"Ah!  he  saw  me,  did  he,  the  rascal?  He  saw  me  picking 
up  this  string  here,  M'sieu'  le  Maire." 

And,  fumbling  at  the  bottom  of  his  pocket,  he  pulled  out  of 
it  the  little  end  of  string. 

But  the  mayor  incredulously  shook  his  head : 

"You  will  not  make  me  believe,  Maitre  Hauchecorne,  that 
M.  Malandain,  who  is  a  man  worthy  of  credit,  has  mistaken  this 
string  for  a  pocket-book." 

The  peasant,  furious,  raised  his  hand  and  spit  as  if  to  attest 
his  good  faith,  repeating: 

"For  all  that,  it  is  the  truth  of  the  good  God,  the  blessed 
truth,  M'sieu'  le  Maire.  There!  on  my  soul  and  my  salvation 
I  repeat  it." 

The  mayor  continued : 

"After  having  picked  up  the  thing  in  question,  you  even 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  21 

looked  for  some  time  in  the  mud  to  see  if  a  piece  of  money 
had  not  dropped  out  of  it." 

The  good  man  was  suffocated  with  indignation  and  with  fear: 

"If  they  can  say! — if  they  can  say  ....  such  lies  as  that 
to  slander  an  honest  man!    If  they  can  say! —  " 

He  might  protest,  he  was  not  believed. 

He  was  confronted  with  M.  Malandain,  who  repeated  and 
sustained  his  testimony.  They  abused  one  another  for  an 
hour.  At  his  own  request  Maitre  Hauchecorne  was  searched. 
.Nothing  was  found  upon  him. 

At  last,  the  mayor,  much  perplexed,  sent  him  away,  warning 
him  that  he  would  inform  the  public  prosecutor,  and  ask  for 
orders. 

The  news  had  spread.  When  he  left  the  mayor's  office, 
the  old  man  was  surrounded,  interrogated  with  a  curiosity 
which  was  serious  or  mocking  as  the  case  might  be,  but  into 
which  no  indignation  entered.  And  he  began  to  tell  the  story 
of  the  string.    They  did  not  believe  him.    They  laughed. 

He  passed  on,  button-holed  by  every  one,  himself  button- 
holing his  acquaintances,  beginning  over  and  over  again  his  tale 
and  his  protestations,  showing  his  pockets  turned  inside  out 
to  prove  that  he  had  nothing. 

They  said  to  him: 

"You  old  rogue,  va!" 

And  he  grew  angry,  exasperated,  feverish,  in  despair  at  not 
being  believed,  and  always  telling  his  story. 

The  night  came.  It  was  time  to  go  home.  He  set  out 
with  three  of  his  neighbors,  to  whom  he  pointed  out  the  place 
where  he  had  picked  up  the  end  of  string;  and  all  the  way  he 
talked  of  his  adventure. 

That  evening  he  made  the  round  in  the  village  of  Breaute, 
so  as  to  tell  every  one.    He  met  only  unbelievers. 

He  was  ill  of  it  all  night  long. 

The  next  day,  about  one  in  the  afternoon,  Marius  Paumelle, 


22  THE  PIECE  OF  STRING 

a  farm  hand  of  Maitre  Breton,  the  market-gardener  at  Ymau- 
ville,  returned  the  pocket-book  and  its  contents  to  Maitre 
Houlbreque,  of  Manneville. 

This  man  said,  indeed,  that  he  had  found  it  on  the  road; 
but  not  knowing  how  to  read,  he  had  carried  it  home  and 
given  it  to  his  master. 

The  news  spread  to  the  environs.  Maitre  Hauchecorne  was 
informed.  He  put  himself  at  once  upon  the  go,  and  began 
to  relate  his  story  as  completed  by  the  denouement.  He 
triumphed. 

"What  grieved  me,"  said  he,  "was  not  the  thing  itself,  do 
you  understand;  but  it  was  the  lies.  There's  nothing  does 
you  so  much  harm  as  being  in  disgrace  for  lying." 

All  day  he  talked  of  his  adventure,  he  told  it  on  the  roads  to 
the  people  who  passed;  at  the  cabaret  to  the  people  who  drank; 
and  the  next  Sunday,  when  they  came  out  of  church.  He  even 
stopped  strangers  to  tell  them  about  it.  He  was  easy,  now, 
and  yet  something  worried  him  without  his  knowing  exactly 
what  it  was.  People  had  a  joking  manner  while  they  listened. 
They  did  not  seem  convinced.  He  seemed  to  feel  their  tittle- 
tattle  behind  his  back. 

On  Tuesday  of  the  next  week  he  went  to  market  at  Goderville, 
prompted  entirely  by  the  need  of  telling  his  story. 

Malandain,  standing  on  his  door-step,  began  to  laugh  as  he 
saw  him  pass.     Why? 

He  accosted  a  farmer  of  Criquetot,  who  did  not  let  him  finish, 
and,  giving  him  a  punch  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  cried  in  his 
face: 

"Oh  you  great  rogue,  vat"     Then  turned  his  heel  upon  him. 

Maitre  Hauchecorne  remained  speechless,  and  grew  more  and 
more  uneasy.    Why  had  they  called  him  "great  rogue"  ? 

When  seated  at  table  in  Jourdain's  tavern  he  began  again  to 
explain  the  whole  affair. 

A  horse-dealer  of  Montivilliers  shouted  at  him: 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  23 

"Get  out,  get  out  old  scamp;  I  know  all  about  your  string!" 

Hauchecorne  stammered: 

"But  since  they  found  it  again,  the  pocket-book!" 

But  the  other  continued: 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  daddy;  there's  one  who  finds  it  and  there's 
another  who  returns  it.    And  no  one  the  wiser." 

The  peasant  was  choked.  He  understood  at  last.  They 
accused  him  of  having  had  the  pocket-book  brought  back  by 
an  accomplice,  by  a  confederate. 

He  tried  to  protest.    The  whole  table  began  to  laugh. 

He  could  not  finish  his  dinner,  and  went  away  amid  a  chorus 
oi  jeers. 

He  went  home,  ashamed  and  indignant,  choked  with  rage, 
with  confusion,  the  more  cast-down  since  from  his  Norman 
cunning,  he  was,  perhaps,  capable  of  having  done  what  they 
accused  him  of,  and  even  of  boasting  of  it  as  a  good  trick. 
His  innocence  dimly  seemed  to  him  impossible  to  prove,  his 
craftiness  being  so  well  known.  And  he  felt  himself  struck  to 
the  heart  by  the  injustice  of  the  suspicion. 

Then  he  began  anew  to  tell  of  his  adventure,  lengthening 
his  recital  every  day,  each  time  adding  new  proofs,  more  ener- 
getic protestations,  and  more  solemn  oaths  which  he  thought 
of,  which  he  prepared  in  his  hours  of  solitude,  his  mind  being 
entirely  occupied  by  the  story  of  the  string.  The  more  com- 
plicated his  defence,  the  more  artful  his  arguments,  the  less 
he  was  believed. 

"Those  are  liars'  proofs,"  they  said  behind  his  back. 

He  felt  this;  it  preyed  upon  his  heart.  He  exhausted  himself 
in  useless  efforts. 

He  was  visibly  wasting  away. 

The  jokers  now  made  him  tell  the  story  of  "The  Piece  of 
String"  to  amuse  them,  just  as  you  make  a  soldier  who  has  been 
on  a  campaign  tell  his  story  of  the  battle.  His  mind,  struck 
at  the  root,  grew  weak. 


24  THE  PIECE  OF  STRING 

About  the  end  of  December  he  took  to  his  bed. 

He  died  early  in  January,  and,  in  the  delirium  of  the  death- 
agony,  he  protested  his  innocence,  repeating: 

"A  little  bit  of  string  —  a  little  bit  of  string  —  see,  here  it 
is,  M'sieu'  le  Maire." 


II.   RHYOLITIC  PERLITE 
Paul  Palmerton 

[Indiana  University] 

[In  this  story  the  plot  of  The  Piece  of  String  has  been  placed  in  an  American 
setting.  Those  elements  of  interest  which  depend  upon  discovering  a  new  plot 
are  therefore  absent.  Yet  the  second  story  contains  distinctive  elements  of 
originality  which  the  thoughtful  reader  will  enjoy  finding  and  appraising.  Other 
differences  will  appear  in  the  firmness  of  the  narrative  texture.  The  student's 
theme  is  a  much  less  closely  wrought  work  of  art.  In  it  the  atmosphere,  the  setting 
and  even  the  characters  are  less  integral  parts  of  the  whole.  Many  of  the  differ- 
ences in  effect  are  due  to  this  fact.  A  careful  comparison  of  the  two  stories  will 
show  in  their  true  relation  the  formative  importance  of  the  four  essential  elements 
of  every  narrative.] 

The  street  carnival  at  Perrytown  was  in  full  swing.  The 
public  square  was  filled  with  people,  with  the  hum  of  voices, 
and  with  the  cries  of  the  "spielers"  announcing  their  peerless 
attractions.  The  country  folk  listened  and  grinned,  and 
moved  aimlessly  in  little  currents  this  way  and  that.  From 
the  whole  crowd  rose  the  genial  warm  odor  of  tobacco  and 
chewing  candy. 

In  one  corner  of  the  square  a  merry-go-round  was  running, 
its  ticket  box  close  to  the  curb  on  the  north  side  of  Sixth  Street. 
Professor  Lee,  teacher  of  geology  at  Perry  College  in  the  eastern 
part  of  the  town,  had  been  to  the  postoffice  to  get  a  dime's 
worth  of  stamps,  and  was  returning,  rather  to  his  disgust, 
through  the  jolly,  shoving  crowd.  He  crossed  to  the  north 
side  of  the  square  and  was  pushing  his  way  past  the  merry-go- 
round  and  its  tiny  ticket  office,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  stone 
lying  in  the  foot  of  space  between  the  office  and  the  curb.  To 
the  ordinary  observer  it  would  have  been  but  a  stone,  as  large 
as  a  man's  fist,  gray,  and  covered  with  specks  of  a  glassy  sub- 
stance.    To  Professor  Lee,  geologist,  it  was  infinitely  more. 


26  RHYOLITIC   PERLITE 

It  was  rhyolitic  perlite,  a  lava  formation  from  Yellowstone 
Park.  It  was  to  be  described  further  as  heavy  and  vesicular, 
of  dark  and  light  crystals  which  were  obsidian  and  quartz 
respectively. 

To  Professor  Lee  it  was  even  more  than  this  —  it  was  a  whole 
book  in  his  particular  subject. 

Professor  Lee  had  recognized  the  stone  immediately,  and 
he  was  about  to  pick  it  up  and  pocket  it  when  he  noticed  that 
the  girl  in  the  box-office  window  was  staring  at  him.  Why  this 
made  him  hesitate  he  could  not  have  said;  but  he  gave  the  stone 
a  push  with  his  foot  and  contemplated  it.  How  had  such  a 
treasure  come  there?  To  whom  did  it  belong?  Had  some  one 
in  the  crowd  just  dropped  it,  or  had  the  merry-go-round  brought 
it  along  in  its  travels?  Possibly  it  was  the  property  of  the  girl 
in  the  box-office  and  had  fallen  out  on  the  curb.  He  looked  to 
see  if  she  were  waiting  for  him  to  pick  it  up,  but  she  was  merely 
staring  at  him  abstractedly.  She  did  not  appear  to  Professor 
Lee  like  a  person  who  would  cultivate  an  interest  in  perlites. 
He  gave  the  stone  another  push  a  little  farther  from  the  window 
and  turned  his  back  to  the  girl.  Then  he  began  to  wipe  his 
forehead  with  his  handkerchief,  which  he  presently  let  fall  to 
the  pavement.  Stooping,  he  picked  up  both  the  handkerchief 
and  the  stone  together  and  thrust  them  into  his  coat  pocket. 
He  did  not  look  at  the  girl  again,  but  kept  on  down  Sixth  Street 
toward  the  college. 

At  five  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Professor  Lee,  expert  in  per- 
lites, bent  over  his  new  specimen  and  rejoiced.  At  the  same 
hour  the  owner  of  the  merry-go-round  pounded  on  the  ticket- 
office  and  cursed.  He  cursed  the  ticket-girl,  the  merry-go- 
round,  the  amusement  business  in  general,  and  he  cursed  with 
reason,  for  his  big  leather  wallet  containing  five  hundred  dollars 
in  cash  was  missing.  He  persisted  in  his  statement  that  he  had 
left  it  at  the  ticket-office.  The  ticket-girl  protested  just  as 
strongly  that  he  had  not,  and,  moreover,  she  was  positive  that 


PAUL  PALMERTON  27 

she  had  seen  him  take  it  up  after  making  out  accounts.  It 
stuck  out  of  his  pocket  —  he  must  have  dropped  it.  Then  sud- 
denly the  girl  remembered.  A  shabby  little  man  had  let  his 
handkerchief  fall  over  something  on  the  curb  near  the  window, 
and  picking  up  both  objects,  had  walked  away  hurriedly  — 
just  as  she  thought  he  was  going  to  buy  a  ticket  for  the  merry- 
go-round.    It  was  clear  where  the  purse  had  gone. 

That  evening,  after  his  discovery,  Professor  Lee  wrote  letters 
to  several  of  his  learned  friends,  telling  them  among  other  things 
of  his  curious  find.  Thus  it  happened  that  he  was  again  out 
of  stamps  the  next  morning  and  needed  to  go  to  the  postoffice. 
He  went  up  Sixth  Street  and  turned  the  corner  into  the  square. 
The  ticket-girl  saw  him  and  shrieked,  and  the  city  police, 
forewarned,  collared  him.  When  the  manager  and  the  ticket- 
girl  appeared  in  court,  Professor  Lee  declared  his  innocence. 
He  admitted  some  justice  in  their  suspicions,  but  he  explained 
all  the  circumstances,  just  why  he  had  crossed  the  square, 
and  how  he  happened  to  see  the  stone.  He  even  quoted  from 
the  letters  he  had  written,  and  a  messenger  was  sent  to  fetch 
the  stone,  the  arrival  of  which  seemed  to  Professor  Lee  to 
complete  his  vindication.  It  is  true  that  his  setting  forth  of 
his  reasons  for  dropping  his  handkerchief  over  the  stone  struck 
the  professor  himself  as  a  trifle  lame.  But  there  is  no  account- 
ing for  impulses  of  that  kind  —  certainly  he  had  no  evil  inten- 
tion. He  was  a  respectable  citizen,  a  member  of  a  distinguished 
faculty  and  of  societies  of  learned  men. 

These  last  remarks  did  not  appear  to  impress  the  manager 
or  the  ticket-girl.  The  latter  had  first  thought  of  him  as  a 
shabby  little  man,  and  she  adhered  to  her  description.  The' 
professor  might  be  Christopher  Columbus,  but  he  had  dropped 
his  handkerchief  to  hide  something  and  had  sneaked  off  with  it, 
and  she  had  no  opinion  of  a  man  who  would  stoop  to  that  sort 
of  thing.  The  manager  was  rather  more  puzzled.  He  could 
not  believe  that  the  professor  was  an  utter  fool.     Yet,  on  the 


28  RHY0LIT1C  PERLITE 

face  of  it,  the  professor's  story  was  balderdash  —  a  pebble  from 
Wyoming  lying  around  loose  on  the  Perrytown  square,  and 
then  the  handkerchief-dropping  over  a  mere  stone.  Pro- 
fessors, no  doubt,  did  queer  things,  and  most  of  all  reasoned 
queer  ways,  but  this  was  hardly  credible.  The  judge  was 
obviously  of  somewhat  similar  opinion.  Professor  Lee  him- 
self began  to  realize  that  it  was  an  absurd  situation,  and  when 
the  case  was  dismissed  for  lack  of  evidence,  he  somehow  felt 
that  the  matter  would  not  be  forgotten. 

In  the  local  paper,  however,  it  went  unrecorded  —  through 
an  editorial  policy  of  never  offending  anyone  —  and  for  a  few 
days  the  professor  took  heart. 

Then,  one  morning  he  was  walking  to  class  with  a  colleague 
who  remarked  off-hand:  "Well,  I  hear  you  were  in  court  the 
other  day.    What  was  it  all  about?" 

Professor  Lee  rushed  into  an  explanation.  His  friend  at 
first  appeared  to  be  vastly  amused.  But  when  the  detail  of  the 
handkerchief  was  mentioned  he  grew  silent. 

Professor  Lee  added:  "Of  course  it  was  an  absurd  situation, 
absurd  of  me  to  drop  my  handkerchief,  and,  then,  the  utter 
improbability  of  finding  rhyolitic  perlite  in  Perrytown!" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  his  friend.  "It  sounds  like  a  tall 
story.     You  can't  blame  people  for  talking." 

"Who's  talking?"  asked  Professor  Lee. 

"Oh,  it's  going  the  rounds.     You  know  Perrytown." 

Professor  Lee  was  faintly  alarmed.  He  knew  Perrytown 
very  well.  Perrytown  would  spread  it  broadcast  as  a  huge 
joke  on  an  eccentric  pedagogue. 

*  But  after  a  few  days  Professor  Lee  noted  a  curious  thing. 
Nobody  else  spoke  to  him  about  his  arrest.  He  imagined  also 
that  some  of  his  acquaintances  were  a  trifle  distant  —  or  was 
it  just  his  imagination?  Certainly  there  was  a  marked  hush 
one  evening  when  he  turned  up  rather  late  at  the  meeting  of 
the  Faculty  Club. 


PAUL  PALMERTON  20 

It  was  this  which  decided  him  to  appeal  to  the  president 
of  the  college,  a  kindly  old  man  of  seventy.  He  was  listened 
to  to  the  end. 

"It  is  precisely  the  story  I  had  heard,"  said  the  president. 
"You  need  not  worry,  people  are  not  maligning  you." 

"But  they  are,"  said  Professor  Lee.  "They  are  saying — " 
He  stopped. 

"No,"  said  the  president,  "they  are  apparently  saying 
nothing  which  you  do  not  admit.  This  is  just  one  of  life's 
little  ironies.     Of  course,  your  friends  will  see  you  through." 

Professor  Lee  left  the  president's  office  much  discouraged. 
Who  were  his  friends  on  the  faculty  of  Perry  College?  He 
realized  that  he  was  a  recluse.  He  had  acquaintances.  Men 
in  other  institutions  sought  his  opinion.  But  friends?  What 
difference  did  it  make,  then,  what  any  of  them  thought? 

He  worked  now  all  day  in  his  laboratory,  and  for  some  reason 
seemed  to  lose  interest  in  meeting  classes.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  second  term  there  was  a  marked  falling  off  among  his 
students.  Were  they  turning  against  him?  With  great  embar- 
rassment he  finally  asked  one  of  his  seniors,  a  boy  who  always 
had  the  highest  marks,  what  he  thought  the  trouble  might  be. 

"Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  suppose  it  is  partly  that  case 
in  court.     You  know  how  the  fellows  exaggerate  things." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"Well,  they  are  saying  now  that  you  admit  that  you  found 
a  valuable  stone,  worth  hundreds  of  dollars  to  you,  and  that 
you  covered  it  with  your  handkerchief." 

"Look  here,"  interrupted  Professor  Lee.  "It  was  just 
rhyolitic  perlite  —  a  fine  specimen,  I  admit;  but  nothing  I 
could  sell,  you  understand." 

"I  suppose  it  was  just  the  story  of  the  handkerchief,  then," 
said  the  senior;  "you  know  how  the  fellows  talk." 

The  atmosphere  of  Perrytown  — it  was  really  nothing  more 
definite  than  that  —  grew  more  and  more  distasteful  to  Pro- 


30  RHYOLITIC  PERLITE 

fessor  Lee.  He  could  see  vaguely  that  there  would  be  no  way 
of  purifying  it.  Perrytown  was  a  bad  place  —  he  knew  it  well. 
The  people  were  mean  and  suspicious. 

Yet  the  people  of  Perrytown  were  genuinely  surprised  when 
the  following  year  Professor  Lee's  name  did  not  recur  on  the 
faculty  list.  There  were  rumors  that  he  had  received  a  "call." 
But  nobody  was  sure  where  he  had  gone. 

In  a  few  years  he  was  forgotten.  His  case  was  still  explained 
to  newcomers  on  the  faculty,  and  occasionally  rehashed  in 
fraternity  houses  where  there  might  be  some  mild  speculation 
as  to  its  merits.  The  man  himself,  however,  was  only  a  name, 
a  name  to  hang  a  tale  on  —  and  nobody  had  convictions  one 
way  or  the  other  about  the  truth  of  the  tale. 

Yet  to  this  day  everyone  who  wishes  may  see,  under  a  neat 
little  glass  case  in  the  geological  laboratory,  a  gray  stone,  as 
large  as  man's  fist,  heavy  and  vesicular,  containing  specks  of 
dark  and  light  crystals,  which  are  obsidian  and  quartz  respec- 
tively. 


III.   MALACHI'S   COVE 
Anthony  Trollope 

^Mally  in  Malachi's  Cove  and  Laurella  in  V Arrabbiata  are  much  alike.  Both 
conceal  under  their  savage  exteriors  large  capacities  for  heroic  devotion.  The 
woman  in  each  conquers  the  hoyden.  Yet  these  unusual  characters  are  made 
to  reveal  their  similar  natures  through  completely  different  plots.  Setting  and  all 
the  attendant  circumstances  are  also  unlike.  Though  the  narrative  interest  in  the 
two  stories  is  different,  the  stories  present  essentially  the  same  problem.  They 
make  the  same  reading  of  human  life.  Malachi's  Cove  is  discussed  at  length  in 
the  introduction,  pages  12-14.] 

On  the  northern  coast  of  Cornwall,  between  Tintagel  and 
Bossiney,  down  on  the  very  margin  of  the  sea,  there  lived  not 
long  since  an  old  man  who  got  his  living  by  saving  seaweed 
from  the  waves,  and  selling  it  for  manure.  The  cliffs  there  are 
bold  and  fine,  and  the  sea  beats  in  upon  them  from  the  north 
with  a  grand  violence.  I  doubt  whether  it  be  not  the  finest 
morsel  of  cliff  scenery  in  England,  though  it  is  beaten  by  many 
portions  of  the  west  coast  of  Ireland,  and  perhaps  also  by  spots 
in  Wales  and  Scotland.  Cliffs  should  be  nearly  precipitous, 
they  should  be  broken  in  their  outlines,  and  should  barely  admit 
here  and  there  of  an  insecure  passage  from  their  summit  to  the 
sand  at  their  feet.  The  sea  should  come,  if  not  up  to  them,  at 
least  very  near  to  them,  and  then,  above  all  things,  the  water 
below  them  should  be  blue,  and  not  of  that  dead  leaden  colour 
which  is  so  familiar  to  us  in  England.  At  Tintagel  all  these 
requisites  are  there,  except  that  bright  blue  colour  which  is  so 
lovely.  But  the  cliffs  themselves  are  bold  and  well  broken, 
and  the  margin  of  sand  at  high  water  is  very  narrow, —  so  nar- 
row that  at  spring-tides  there  is  barely  a  footing  there. 

Close  upon  this  margin  was  the  cottage  or  hovel  of  Malachi 
Trenglos,  the  old  man  of  whom  I  have  spoken.     But  Malachi, 


32  MALACHI'S  COVE 

or  old  Glos,  as  he  was  commonly  called  by  the  people  around 
him,  had  not  build  his  house  absolutely  upon  the  sand.  There 
was  a  fissure  in  the  rock  so  great  that  at  the  top  it  formed  a 
narrow  ravine,  and  so  complete  from  the  summit  to  the  base 
that  it  afforded  an  opening  for  a  steep  and  rugged  track  from 
the  top  of  the  rock  to  the  bottom.  This  fissure  was  so  wide 
at  the  bottom  that  it  had  afforded  space  for  Trenglos  to  fix 
his  habitation  on  a  foundation  of  rock,  and  here  he  had  lived  for 
many  years.  It  was  told  of  him  that  in  the  early  days  of  his 
trade  he  had  always  carried  the  weed  in  a  basket  on  his  back 
to  the  top,  but  latterly  he  had  been  possessed  of  a  donkey  which 
had  been  trained  to  go  up  and  down  the  steep  track  with  a 
single  pannier  over  his  loins,  for  the  rocks  would  not  admit  of 
panniers  hanging  by  his  side;  and  for  this  assistant  he  had 
built  a  shed  adjoining  his  own,  and  almost  as  large  as  that  in 
which  he  himself  resided. 

But,  as  years  went  on,  old  Glos  procured  other  assistance 
than  that  of  the  donkey,  or,  as  I  should  rather  say,  Providence 
supplied  him  with  other  help;  and,  indeed,  had  it  not  been  so, 
the  old  man  must  have  given  up  his  cabin  and  his  independence 
and  gone  into  the  workhouse  at  Camelford.  For  rheumatism 
had  afflicted  him,  old  age  had  bowed  him  till  he  was  nearly 
double,  and  by  degrees  he  became  unable  to  attend  the  donkey 
or  even  to  assist  in  rescuing  the  coveted  weed  from  the 
waves. 

At  the  time  to  which  our  story  refers  Trenglos  had  not  been 
up  the  cliff  for  twelve  months,  and  for  the  last  six  months  he 
had  done  nothing  towards  the  furtherance  of  his  trade,  except 
to  take  the  money  and  keep  it,  if  any  of  it  was  kept,  and  occa- 
sionally to  shake  down  a  bundle  of  fodder  for  the  donkey.  The 
real  work  of  the  business  was  done  altogether  by  Mahala  Treng- 
los, his  granddaughter. 

Mally  Trenglos  was  known  to  all  the  farmers  round  the  coast, 
and  to  all  the  small  tradespeople  in  Camelford.     She  was  a 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  33 

wild-looking,  almost  unearthly  creature,  with  wild-flowing, 
black,  uncombed  hair,  small  in  stature,  with  small  hands  and 
bright  black  eyes;  but  people  said  that  she  was  very  strong, 
and  the  children  around  declared  that  she  worked  day  and 
night,  and  knew  nothing  of  fatigue.  As  to  her  age  there  were 
many  doubts.  Some  said  she  was  ten,  and  others  five-and- 
twenty,  but  the  reader  may  be  allowed  to  know  that  at  this 
time  she  had  in  truth  passed  her  twentieth  birthday.  The 
old  people  spoke  well  of  Mally,  because  she  was  so  good  to 
her  grandfather;  and  it  was  said  of  her  that  though  she  carried 
to  him  a  little  gin  and  tobacco  almost  daily,  she  bought  nothing 
for  herself; —  and  as  to  the  gin,  no  one  who  looked  at  her  would 
accuse  her  of  meddling  with  that.  But  she  had  no  friends, 
and  but  few  acquaintances  among  people  of  her  own  age. 
They  said  that  she  was  fierce  and  ill-natured,  that  she  had  not 
a  good  word  for  any  one,  and  that  she  was,  complete  at  all 
points,  a  thorough  little  vixen.  The  young  men  did  not  care 
for  her;  for,  as  regarded  dress,  all  days  were  alike  with  her. 
She  never  made  herself  smart  on  Sundays.  She  was  generally 
without  stockings,  and  seemed  to  care  not  at  all  to  exercise 
any  of  those  feminine  attractions  which  might  have  been  hers 
had  she  studied  to  attain  them.  All  days  were  the  same  to  her 
in  regard  to  dress;  and,  indeed,  till  lately,  all  days  had,  I  fear, 
been  the  same  to  her  in  other  respects.  Old  Malachi  had 
never  been  seen  inside  a  place  of  worship  since  he  had  taken 
to  live  under  the  cliff. 

But  within  the  last  two  years  Mally  had  submitted  herself 
to  the  teaching  of  the  clergyman  at  Tintagel,  and  had  appeared 
at  church  on  Sundays,  if  not  absolutely  with  punctuality, 
at  any  rate  so  often  that  no  one  who  knew  the  peculiarity  of 
her  residence  was  disposed  to  quarrel  with  her  on  that  subject. 
But  she  made  no  difference  in  her  dress  on  these  occasions. 
She  took  her  place  on  a  low  stone  seat  just  inside  the  church 
door,  clothed  as  usual  in  her  thick  red  serge  petticoat  and  loose 


34  MALACHI'S  COVE 

brown  serge  jacket,  such  being  the  apparel  which  she  had 
found  to  be  best  adapted  for  her  hard  and  perilous  work  among 
the  waters.  She  had  pleaded  to  the  clergyman  when  he  at- 
tacked her  on  the  subject  of  church  attendance  with  vigour  that 
she  had  got  no  church-going  clothes.  He  had  explained  to 
her  that  she  would  be  received  there  without  distinction  to  her 
clothing.  Mally  had  taken  him  at  his  word,  and  had  gone, 
with  a  courage  which  certainly  deserved  admiration,  though 
I  doubt  whether  there  was  not  mingled  with  it  an  obstinacy 
which  was  less  admirable. 

For  people  said  that  old  Glos  was  rich,  and  that  Mally  might 
have  proper  clothes  if  she  chose  to  buy  them.  Mr.  Polwarth, 
the  clergyman,  who,  as  the  old  man  could  not  come  to  him, 
went  down  the  rocks  to  the  old  man,  did  make  some  hint  on 
the  matter  in  Mally's  absence.  But  old  Glos,  who  had  been 
patient  with  him  on  other  matters,  turned  upon  him  so  angrily 
when  he  made  an  allusion  to  money,  that  Mr.  Polwarth  found 
himself  obliged  to  give  that  matter  up,  and  Mally  continued 
to  sit  upon  the  stone  bench  in  her  short  serge  petticoat,  with  her 
long  hair  streaming  down  her  face.  She  did  so  far  sacrifice 
to  decency  as  on  such  occasion  to  tie  up  her  back  hair  with  an 
old  shoe-string.  So  tied  it  would  remain  through  the  Monday 
and  Tuesday,  but  by  Wednesday  afternoon  Mally's  hair  had 
generally  managed  to  escape. 

As  to  Mally's  indefatigable  industry  there  could  be  no  manner 
of  doubt,  for  the  quantity  of  seaweed  which  she  and  the  donkey 
amassed  between  them  was  very  surprising.  Old  Glos,  it  was 
declared,  had  never  collected  half  what  Mally  gathered  together; 
but  then  the  article  was  becoming  cheaper,  and  it  was  necessary 
that  the  exertion  should  be  greater.  So  Mally  and  the  donkey 
toiled  and  toiled,  and  the  seaweed  came  up  in  heaps  which  sur- 
prised those  who  looked  at  her  little  hands  and  light  form. 
Was  there  not  some  one  who  helped  her  at  nights,  some  fairy, 
or  demon,  or  the  like?     Mally  was  so  snappish  in  her  answers 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  35 

to  people  that  she  had  no  right  to  be  surprised  if  ill-natured 
things  were  said  of  her. 

No  one  ever  heard  Mally  Trenglos  complain  of  her  work, 
but  about  this  time  she  was  heard  to  make  great  and  loud 
complaints  of  the  treatment  she  received  from  some  of  her 
neighbours.  It  was  known  that  she  went  with  her  plaints  to 
Mr.  Polwarth;  and  when  he  could  not  help  her,  or  did  not  give 
her  such  instant  help  as  she  needed,  she  went  —  ah,  so  foolishly! 
—  to  the  office  of  a  certain  attorney  at  Camelford,  who  was 
not  likely  to  prove  himself  a  better  friend  than  Mr.  Polwarth. 

Now  the  nature  of  her  injury  was  as  follows.  The  place  in 
which  she  collected  her  seaweed  was  a  little  cove;  the  people 
had  come  to  call  it  Malachi's  Cove  from  the  name  of  the  old 
man  who  lived  there; — which  was  so  formed,  that  the  margin 
of  the  sea  therein  could  only  be  reached  by  the  passage  from  the 
top  down  to  Trenglos's  hut.  The  breadth  of  the  cove  when 
the  sea  was  out  might  perhaps  be  two  hundred  yards,  and  on 
each  side  the  rocks  ran  out  in  such  a  way  that  both  from  north 
and  south  the  domain  of  Trenglos  was  guarded  from  intruders. 
And  this  locality  had  been  well  chosen  for  its  intended  purpose. 

There  was  a  rush  of  the  sea  into  the  cove,  which  carried  there 
large,  drifting  masses  of  seaweed,  leaving  them  among  the  rocks 
when  the  tide  was  out.  During  the  equinoctial  winds  of  the 
spring  and  autumn  the  supply  would  never  fail ;  and  even  when 
the  sea  was  calm,  the  long,  soft,  salt-bedewed,  trailing  masses 
of  the  weed  could  be  gathered  there  when  they  could  not  be 
found  elsewhere  for  miles  along  the  coast.  The  task  of  getting 
the  weed  from  the  breakers  was  often  difficult  and  dangerous, — 
so  difficult  that  much  of  it  was  left  to  be  carried  away  by  the 
next  outgoing  tide. 

Mally  doubtless  did  not  gather  half  the  crop  that  was  there 
at  her  feet.  What  was  taken  by  the  returning  waves  she  did 
not  regret;  but  when  interlopers  came  upon  her  cove,  and 
gathered  her  wealth, —  her  grandfather's  wealth, —  beneath  her 


36  MALACHI'S  COVE 

eyes,  then  her  heart  was  broken.  It  was  this  interloping,  this 
intrusion,  that  drove  poor  Mally  to  the  Camelford  attorney. 
But,  alas,  though  the  Camelford  attorney  took  Mally 's  money, 
he  could  do  nothing  for  her,  and  her  heart  was  broken! 

She  had  an  idea,  in  which  no  doubt  her  grandfather  shared, 
that  the  path  to  the  cove  was,  at  any  rate,  their  property. 
When  she  was  told  that  the  cove,  and  sea  running  into  the 
cove,  were  not  the  freeholds  of  her  grandfather,  she  understood 
that  the  statement  might  be  true.  But  what  then  as  to  the 
use  of  the  path?  Who  had  made  the  path  what  it  was?  Had 
she  not  painfully,  wearily,  with  exceeding  toil,  carried  up  bits 
of  rock  with  her  own  little  hands,  that  her  grandfather's  donkey 
might  have  footing  for  his  feet?  Had  she  not  scraped  together 
crumbs  of  earth  along  the  face  of  the  cliff  that  she  might  make 
easier  to  the  animal  the  track  of  that  rugged  way?  And  now, 
when  she  saw  big  farmers'  lads  coming  down  with  other  donkeys, 
—  and,  indeed,  there  was  one  who  came  with  a  pony;  no  boy 
but  a  young  man,  old  enough  to  know  better  than  rob  a  poor 
old  man  and  a  young  girl, —  she  reviled  the  whole  human  race, 
and  swore  that  the  Camelford  attorney  was  a  fool. 

Any  attempt  to  explain  to  her  that  there  was  still  weed 
enough  for  her  was  worse  than  useless.  Was  it  not  all  hers  and 
his,  or,  at  any  rate,  was  not  the  sole  way  to  it  his  and  hers? 
And  was  not  her  trade  stopped  and  impeded?  Had  she  not  been 
forced  to  back  her  laden  donkey  down,  twenty  yards  she  said, 
but  it  had,  in  truth,  been  five,  because  Farmer  Gunliffe's  son 
had  been  in  the  way  with  his  thieving  pony?  Farmer  Gunliffe 
had  wanted  to  buy  her  weed  at  his  own  price,  and  because 
she  had  refused  he  had  set  on  his  thieving  son  to  destroy  her 
in  this  wicked  way. 

"I'll  hamstring  the  beast  the  next  time  as  he's  down  here!" 
said  Mally  to  old  Glos,  while  the  angry  fire  literally  streamed 
from  her  eyes. 

Farmer  Gunliffe's  small  homestead  —  he  held  about  fifty 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  37 

acres  of  land  —  was  close  by  the  village  of  Tintagel,  and  not 
a  mile  from  the  cliff.  The  sea-wrack,  as  they  call  it,  was  pretty 
well  the  only  manure  within  his  reach,  and  no  doubt  he  thought 
it  hard  that  he  should  be  kept  from  using  it  by  Mally  Trenglos 
and  her  obstinacy. 

"There's  heaps  of  other  coves,  Barty,"  said  Mally  to  Barty 
Gunliffe,  the  farmer's  son. 

"But  none  so  nigh,  Mally,  nor  yet  none  that  fills  'emselves 
as  this  place." 

Then  he  explained  to  her  that  he  would  not  take  the  weed  that 
came  up  close  to  hand.  He  was  bigger  than  she  was,  and 
stronger,  and  would  get  it  from  the  outer  rocks,  with  which  she 
never  meddled.  Then,  with  scorn  in  her  eye,  she  swore  that  she 
could  get  it  where  he  durst  not  venture,  and  repeated  her 
threat  of  hamstringing  the  pony.  Barty  laughed  at  her  wrath, 
jeered  her  because  of  her  wild  hair,  and  called  her  a  mermaid. 

"I'll  mermaid  you!"  she  cried.  "Mermaid,  indeed!  I 
wouldn't  be  a  man  to  come  and  rob  a  poor  girl  and  an  old 
cripple.  But  you're  no  man,  Barty  Gunliffe!  You're  not  half 
a  man." 

Nevertheless,  Bartholomew  Gunliffe  was  a  very  fine  young 
fellow,  as  far  as  the  eye  went.  He  was  about  five  feet  eight 
inches  high,  with  strong  arms  and  legs,  with  light  curly  brown 
hair  and  blue  eyes.  His  father  was  but  in  a  small  way  as  a 
farmer,  but,  nevertheless,  Barty  Gunliffe  was  well  thought  of 
among  the  girls  around.  Everybody  liked  Barty, —  excepting 
only  Mally  Trenglos,  and  she  hated  him  like  poison. 

Barty,  when  he  was  asked  why  so  good-natured  a  lad  as 
he  persecuted  a  poor  girl  and  an  old  man,  threw  himself  upon 
the  justice  of  the  thing.  It  wouldn't  do  at  all,  according  to 
his  view,  that  any  single  person  should  take  upon  himself  to  own 
that  which  God  Almighty  sent  as  the  common  property  of  all. 
He  would  do  Mally  no  harm,  and  so  he  had  told  her.  But  Mally 
was  a  vixen,  — a  wicked  little  vixen;    and  she  must  be  taught 


38  MALACHI'S  COVE 

to  have  a  civil  tongue  in  her  head.  When  once  Mally  would 
speak  him  civil  as  he  went  for  weed,  he  would  get  his  father  to 
pay  the  old  man  some  sort  of  toll  for  the  use  of  the  path. 

"Speak  him  civil?"  said  Mally.  "Never;  not  while  I  have 
a  tongue  in  my  mouth!"  And  I  fear  old  Glos  encouraged  her 
rather  than  otherwise  in  her  view  of  the  matter. 

But  her  grandfather  did  not  encourage  her  to  hamstring 
the  pony.  Hamstringing  a  pony  would  be  a  serious  thing, 
and  old  Glos  thought  it  might  be  very  awkward  for  both  of  them 
if  Mally  were  put  into  prison.  He  suggested,  therefore,  that 
all  manner  of  impediments  should  be  put  in  the  way  of  the 
pony's  feet,  surmising  that  the  well-trained  donkey  might  be 
able  to  work  in  spite  of  them.  And  Barty  Gunliffe,  on  his 
next  descent,  did  find  the  passage  very  awkward  when  he  came 
near  to  Malachi's  hut,  but  he  made  his  way  down,  and  poor 
Mally  saw  the  lumps  of  rock  at  which  she  had  laboured  so  hard 
pushed  on  one  side  or  rolled  out  of  the  way  with  a  steady  per- 
sistency of  injury  towards  herself  that  almost  drove  her  frantic. 

"Well,  Barty,  you're  a  nice  boy,"  said  old  Glos,  sitting  in  the 
doorway  of  the  hut,  as  he  watched  the  intruder. 

"I  ain't  a  doing  no  harm  to  none  as  doesn't  harm  me,"  said 
Barty.     "The  sea's  free  to  all,  Malachi." 

"And  the  sky's  free  to  all,  but  I  must'n  get  up  on  the  top  ol 
your  big  barn  to  look  at  it,"  said  Mally,  who  was  standing  among 
the  rocks  with  a  long  hook  in  her  hand.  The  long  hook  was  the 
tool  with  which  she  worked  in  dragging  the  weed  from  the 
waves.  "But  you  ain't  got  no  justice  nor  yet  no  sperrit,  or 
you  wouldn't  come  here  to  vex  an  old  man  like  he." 

"I  didn't  want  to  vex  him,  nor  yet  to  vex  you,  Mally.  You 
let  me  be  for  a  while,  and  we'll  be  friends  yet." 

"Friends!"  exclaimed  Mally.  "Who'd  have  the  likes  of 
you  for  a  friend?  What  are  you  moving  them  stones  for? 
Them  stones  belongs  to  grandfather."  And  in  her  wrath  she 
made  a  movement  as  though  she  were  going  to  fly  at  him. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  39 

"Let  him  be,  Mally,"  said  the  old  man;  "let  him  be.  He'll 
get  his  punishment.  He'll  come  to  be  drowned  some  day  if 
he  comes  down  here  when  the  wind  is  in  shore." 

"That  he  may  be  drowned  then!"  said  Mally,  in  her  anger. 
"If  he  was  in  the  big  hole  there  among  the  rocks,  and  the  sea 
running  in  at  half  tide,  I  wouldn't  lift  a  hand  to  help  him  out." 

"Yes,  you  would,  Mally;  you'd  fish  me  up  with  your  hook 
like  a  big  stick  of  seaweed." 

She  turned  from  him  with  scorn  as  he  said  this,  and  went  into 
the  hut.  It  was  time  for  her  to  get  ready  for  her  work,  and  one 
of  the  great  injuries  done  her  lay  in  this,  —  that  such  a  one  as 
Barty  Gunliffe  should  come  and  look  at  her  during  her  toil 
among  the  breakers. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  April,  and  the  hour  was  something 
after  four  o'clock.  There  had  been  a  heavy  wind  from  the 
northwest  all  the  morning,  with  gusts  of  rain,  and  the  sea-gulls 
had  been  in  and  out  of  the  cove  all  the  day,  which  was  a  sure 
sign  to  Mally  that  the  incoming  tide  would  cover  the  rocks  with 
weed. 

The  quick  waves  were  now  returning  with  wonderful  celerity 
over  the  low  reefs,  and  the  time  had  come  at  which  the  treasure 
must  be  seized,  if  it  was  to  be  garnered  on  that  day.  By  seven 
o'clock  it  would  be  growing  dark,  at  nine  it  would  be  high  water, 
and  before  daylight  the  crop  would  be  carried  out  again  if  not 
collected.  All  this  Mally  understood  very  well,  and  some  of 
this  Barty  was  beginning  to  understand  also. 

As  Mally  came  down  with  her  bare  feet,  bearing  her  long  hook 
in  her  hand,  she  saw  Barty's  pony  standing  patiently  on  the 
sand,  and  in  her  heart  she  longed  to  attack  the  brute.  Barty 
at  this  moment,  with  a  common  three-pronged  fork  in  his  hand, 
was  standing  down  on  a  large  rock,  gazing  forth  towards  the 
waters.  He  had  declared  that  he  would  gather  the  weed  only 
at  places  which  were  inaccessible  to  Mally,  and  he  was  looking 
out  that  he  might  settle  where  he  would  begin. 


40  MALACHI'S  COVE 

"Let  'un  be,  let  'un  be,"  shouted  the  old  man  to  Mally,  as 
he  saw  her  take  a  step  towards  the  beast,  which  she  hated  almost 
as  much  as  she  hated  the  man. 

Hearing  her  grandfather's  voice  through  the  wind,  she  de- 
sisted from  her  purpose,  if  any  purpose  she  had  had,  and  went 
forth  to  her  work.  As  she  passed  down  the  cove,  and  scrambled 
in  among  the  rocks,  she  saw  Barty  still  standing  on  his  perch; 
out  beyond,  the  white-curling  waves  were  cresting  and  break- 
ing themselves  with  violence,  and  the  wind  was  howling  among 
the  caverns  and  abutments  of  the  cliff. 

Every  now  and  then  there  came  a  squall  of  rain,  and  though 
there  was  sufficient  light,  the  heavens  were  black  with  clouds. 
A  scene  more  beautiful  might  hardly  be  found  by  those  who 
love  the  glories  of  the  coast.  The  light  for  such  objects  was 
perfect.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  grandeur  of  the  colours,  — 
the  blue  of  the  open  sea,  the  white  of  the  breaking  waves,  the 
yellow  sands,  or  the  streaks  of  red  and  brown  which  gave  such 
richness  to  the  cliff. 

But  neither  Mally  nor  Barty  were  thinking  of  such  things  as 
these.  Indeed  they  were  hardly  thinking  of  their  trade  after 
its  ordinary  forms.  Barty  was  meditating  how  he  might  best 
accomplish  his  purpose  of  working  beyond  the  reach  of  Mally's 
feminine  powers,  and  Mally  was  resolving  that  wherever  Barty 
went  she  would  go  farther. 

And,  in  many  respects,  Mally  had  the  advantage.  She  knew 
every  rock  in  the  spot,  and  was  sure  of  those  which  gave  a  good 
foothold,  and  sure  also  of  those  which  did  not.  And  then  her 
activity  had  been  made  perfect  by  practice  for  the  purpose  to 
which  it  was  to  be  devoted.  Barty,  no  doubt,  was  stronger 
than  she,  and  quite  as  active.  But  Barty  could  not  jump  among 
the  waves  from  one  stone  to  another  as  she  could  do,  nor  was 
he  able  to  get  aid  in  his  work  from  the  very  force  of  the  water 
as  she  could  get  it.  She  had  been  hunting  seaweed  in  that  cove 
since  she  had  been  an  urchin  six  years  old,  and  she  knew 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  41 

every  hole  and  corner  and  every  spot  of  vantage.  The  waves 
were  her  friends,  and  she  could  use  them.  She  could  measure 
their  strength,  and  knew  when  and  where  it  would  cease. 

Mally  was  great  down  in  the  salt  pools  of  her  own  cove,  — 
great,  and  very  fearless.  As  she  watched  Barty  make  his  way 
forward  from  rock  to  rock,  she  told  herself,  gleefully,  that  he 
was  going  astray.  The  curl  of  the  wind  as  it  blew  into  the 
cove  would  not  carry  the  weed  up  to  the  northern  buttresses 
of  the  cove;  and  then  there  was  the  great  hole  just  there,  — 
the  great  hole  of  which  she  had  spoken  when  she  wished  him  evil. 

And  now  she  went  to  work,  holding  up  the  dishevelled  hairs 
of  the  ocean,  and  landing  many  a  cargo  on  the  extreme  margin 
of  the  sand,  from  whence  she  would  be  able  in  the  evening  to 
drag  it  back  before  the  invading  waters  would  return  to  reclaim 
the  spoil. 

And  on  his  side  also  Barty  made  his  heap  up  against  the 
northern  buttresses  of  which  I  have  spoken.  Barty's  heap 
became  big  and  still  bigger,  so  that  he  knew,  let  the  pony  work 
as  he  might,  he  could  not  take  it  all  up  that  evening.  But 
still  it  was  not  as  large  as  Mally's  heap.  Mally's  hook  was 
better  than  his  fork,  and  Mally's  skill  was  better  than  his 
strength.  And  when  he  failed  in  some  haul  Mally  would  jeer 
him  with  wild,  weird  laughter,  and  shriek  to  him  through  the 
wind  that  he  was  not  half  a  man.  At  first  he  answered  her 
with  laughing  words,  but  before  long,  as  she  boasted  of  her  suc- 
cess and  pointed  to  his  failure,  he  became  angry,  and  then  he 
answered  her  no  more.  He  became  angry  with  himself,  in  that 
he  missed  so  much  of  the  plunder  before  him. 

The  broken  sea  was  full  of  the  long  straggling  growth  which 
the  waves  had  torn  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  but  the 
masses  were  carried  past  him,  away  from  him,  —  nay,  once  or 
twice  over  him;  and  then  Mally's  weird  voice  would  sound  in 
his  ear,  jeering  him.  The  gloom  among  the  rocks  was  now  be- 
coming thicker  and  thicker,  the  tide  was  beating  in  with  in- 


42  MALACHI'S  COVE 

creased  strength,  and  the  gusts  of  wind  came  with  quicker  and 
greater  violence.  But  still  he  worked  on.  While  Mally 
worked  he  would  work,  and  he  would  work  for  some  time  after 
she  was  driven  in.     He  would  not  be  beaten  by  a  girl. 

The  great  hole  was  now  full  of  water,  but  of  water  which 
seemed  to  be  boiling  as  though  in  a  pot.  And  the  pot  was 
full  of  floating  masses,  —  large  treasures  of  seaweed  which 
were  thrown  to  and  fro  upon  its  surface,  but  lying  there  so  thick 
that  one  would  seem  almost  able  to  rest  upon  it  without 
sinking. 

Mally  knew  well  how  useless  it  was  to  attempt  to  rescue 
aught  from  the  fury  of  that  boiling  cauldron.  The  hole  went  in 
under  the  rocks,  and  the  side  of  it  towards  the  shore  lay  high, 
slippery,  and  steep.  The  hole,  even  at  low  water,  was  never 
empty;  and  Mally  believed  that  there  was  no  bottom  to  it. 
Fish  thrown  in  there  could  escape  out  to  the  ocean,  miles  away, 
—  so  Mally  in  her  softer  moods  would  tell  the  visitors  to  the 
cove.  She  knew  the  hole  well.  Poulnadioul  she  was  accustomed 
to  call  it;  which  was  supposed,  when  translated,  to  mean 
that  this  was  the  hole  of  the  Evil  One.  Never  did  Mally  at- 
tempt to  make  her  own  the  bunch  of  weed  which  had  found 
its  way  into  that  pot. 

But  Barty  Gunliffe  knew  no  better,  and  she  watched  him  as 
he  endeavoured  to  steady  himself  on  the  treacherously  slippery 
edge  of  the  pool.  He  fixed  himself  there  and  made  a  haul, 
with  some  small  success.  How  he  managed  it  she  hardly  knew, 
but  she  stood  still  for  a  while  watching  him  anxiously,  and  then 
she  saw  him  slip.  He  slipped,  and  recovered  himself;  —  slipped 
again,  and  again  recovered  himself. 

"Barty,  you  fool!"  she  screamed;  "if  you  get  yourself 
pitched  in  there,  you'll  never  come  out  no  more." 

Whether  she  simply  wished  to  frighten  him,  or  whether  her 
heart  relented  and  she  had  thought  of  his  danger  with  dismay, 
who  shall  say?     She  could  not  have  told  herself.     She  hated 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  43 

him  as  much  as  ever,  —  but  she  could  hardly  have  wished  to 
see  him  drowned  before  her  eyes. 

"You  go  on,  and  don't  mind  me,"  said  he,  speaking  in  a 
hoarse,  angry  tone. 

"Mind  you!  —  who  minds  you?"  retorted  the  girl.  And 
then  she  again  prepared  herself  for  her  work. 

But  as  she  went  down  over  the  rocks  with  her  long  hook 
balanced  in  her  hands,  she  suddenly  heard  a  splash,  and,  turn- 
ing quickly  round,  saw  the  body  of  her  enemy  tumbling  amidst 
the  eddying  waves  in  the  pool.  The  tide  had  now  come  up 
so  far  that  every  succeeding  wave  washed  into  it  and  over  it 
from  the  side  nearest  to  the  sea,  and  then  ran  down  again  back 
from  the  rocks,  as  the  rolling  wave  receded,  with  a  noise  like 
the  fall  of  a  cataract.  And  then,  when  the  surplus  water  had 
retreated  for  a  moment,  the  surface  of  the  pool  would  be  partly 
calm,  though  the  fretting  bubbles  would  still  boil  up  and  down, 
and  there  was  ever  a  simmer  on  the  surface,  as  though,  in 
truth,  the  cauldron  were  heated.  But  this  time  of  comparative 
rest  was  but  a  moment,  for  the  succeeding  breaker  would  come 
up  almost  as  soon  as  the  foam  of  the  preceding  one  had  done, 
and  then  again  the  waters  would  be  dashed  upon  the  rocks, 
and  the  sides  would  echo  with  the  roar  of  the  angry  wave. 

Instantly  Mally  hurried  across  to  the  edge  of  the  pool,  crouch- 
ing down  upon  her  hands  and  knees  for  security  as  she  did  so. 
As  a  wave  receded,  Barty's  head  and  face  was  carried  round 
near  to  her,  and  she  could  see  that  his  forehead  was  covered 
with  blood.  Whether  he  was  alive  or  dead  she  did  not  know. 
She  had  seen  nothing  but  his  blood,  and  the  light-coloured 
hair  of  his  head  lying  amidst  the  foam.  Then  his  body  was 
drawn  along  by  the  suction  of  the  retreating  wave;  but  the  mass 
of  water  that  escaped  was  not  on  this  occasion  large  enough 
to  carry  the  man  out  with  it. 

Instantly  Mally  was  at  work  with  her  hook,  and  getting  it 
fixed  into  his  coat,  dragged  him  towards  the  spot  on  which  she 


44  MALACHI'S   COVE 

was  kneeling.  During  the  half  minute  of  repose  she  got  him  so 
close  that  she  could  touch  his  shoulder.  Straining  herself  down, 
laying  herself  over  the  long  bending  handle  of  the  hook,  she 
strove  to  grasp  him  with  her  right  hand.  But  she  could  not  do 
it;  she  could  only  touch  him. 

Then  came  the  next  breaker,  forcing  itself  on  with  a  roar, 
looking  to  Mally  as  though  it  must  certainly  knock  her  from  her 
resting-place,  and  destroy  them  both.  But  she  had  nothing  for 
it  but  to  kneel,  and  hold  by  her  hook. 

What  prayer  passed  through  her  mind  at  that  moment 
for  herself  or  for  him,  or  for  that  old  man  who  was  sitting 
unconsciously  up  at  the  cabin,  who  can  say?  The  great  wave 
came  and  rushed  over  her  as  she  lay  almost  prostrate,  and  when 
the  water  was  gone  from  her  eyes,  and  the  tumult  of  the  foam, 
and  the  violence  of  the  roaring  breaker  had  passed  by  her, 
she  found  herself  at  her  length  upon  the  rock,  while  his  body  had 
been  lifted  up,  free  from  her  hook,  and  was  lying  upon  the  slip- 
pery ledge,  half  in  the  water  and  half  out  of  it.  As  she  looked 
at  him,  in  that  instant,  she  could  see  that  his  eyes  were  open  and 
that  he  was  struggling  with  his  hands. 

"Hold  by  the  hook,  Barty,"  she  cried,  pushing  the  stick  of 
it  before  him,  while  she  seized  the  collar  of  his  coat  in  her  hands. 

Had  he  been  her  brother,  her  lover,  her  father,  she  could  not 
have  clung  to  him  with  more  of  the  energy  of  despair.  He 
did  contrive  to  hold  by  the  stick  which  she  had  given  him,  and 
when  the  succeeding  wave  had  passed  by,  he  was  still  on  the 
ledge.  In  the  next  moment  she  was  seated  a  yard  or  two  above 
the  hole,  in  comparative  safety,  while  Barty  lay  upon  the  rocks 
with  his  still  bleeding  head  resting  upon  her  lap. 

What  could  she  do  now?  She  could  not  carry  him ;  and  in 
fifteen  minutes  the  sea  would  be  up  where  she  was  sitting. 
He  was  quite  insensible  and  very  pale,  and  the  blood  was  coming 
slowly,  —  very  slowly,  —  from  the  wound  on  his  forehead. 
Ever  so  gently  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  hair  to  move  it  back 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  45 

from  his  face;  and  then  she  bent  over  his  mouth  to  see  if  he 
breathed,  and  as  she  looked  at  him  she  knew  that  he  was  beau- 
tiful. 

What  would  she  not  give  that  he  might  live?  Nothing  now 
was  so  precious  to  her  as  his  life,  —  as  this  life  which  she  had  so 
far  rescued  from  the  waters.  But  what  could  she  do?  Her 
grandfather  could  scarcely  get  himself  down  over  the  rocks, 
if  indeed  he  could  succeed  in  doing  so  much  as  that.  Could  she 
drag  the  wounded  man  backwards,  if  it  were  only  a  few  feet, 
so  that  he  might  lie  above  the  reach  of  the  waves  till  further 
assistance  could  be  procured? 

She  set  herself  to  work  and  she  moved  him,  almost  lifting 
him.  As  she  did  so  she  wondered  at  her  own  strength,  but 
she  was  very  strong  at  that  moment.  Slowly,  tenderly,  falling 
on  the  rocks  herself  so  that  he  might  fall  on  her,  she  got  him 
back  to  the  margin  of  the  sand,  to  a  spot  which  the  waters 
would  not  reach  for  the  next  two  hours. 

Here  her  grandfather  met  them,  having  seen  at  last  what  had 
happened  from  the  door. 

"Dada,"  she  said,  "he  fell  into  the  pool  yonder,  and  was 
battered  against  the  rocks.     See  there  at  his  forehead." 

"Mally,  I'm  thinking  that  he's  dead  already,"  said  old  Glos, 
peering  down  over  the  body. 

"No,  dada;  he  is  not  dead;  but  mayhap  he's  dying.  But 
I'll  go  at  once  up  to  the  farm." 

"Mally,"  said  the  old  man,  "look  at  his  head.  They'll 
say  we  murdered  him." 

"Who'll  say  so?  Who'll  lie  like  that?  Didn't  I  pull  him 
out  of  the  hole?" 

"What  matters  that?    His  father '11  say  we  killed  him." 

It  was  manifest  to  Mally  that  whatever  anyone  might  say 
hereafter,  her  present  course  was  plain  before  her.  She  must 
run  up  the  path  to  Gunliffe's  farm  and  get  necessary  assistance. 
If  the  world  were  as  bad  as  her  grandfather  said,  it  would  be 


46  MALACHI'S  COVE 

so  bad  that  she  would  not  care  to  live  longer  in  it.  But  be  that 
as  it  might,  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  what  she  must  do  now. 

So  away  she  went  as  fast  as  her  naked  feet  could  carry  her  up 
the  cliff.  When  at  the  top  she  looked  round  to  see  if  any 
person  might  be  within  ken,  but  she  saw  no  one.  So  she  ran 
with  her  all  speed  along  the  headland  of  the  cornfield  which  led 
in  the  direction  of  old  Gunliffe's  house,  and  as  she  drew  near  to 
the  homestead  she  saw  that  Barty's  mother  was  leaning  on  the 
gate.  As  she  approached,  she  attempted  to  call,  but  her 
breath  failed  her  for  any  purpose  of  loud  speech,  so  she  ran 
on  till  she  was  able  to  grasp  Mrs.  Gunliffe  by  the  arm. 

"Where's  himself?"  she  said,  holding  her  hand  upon  her 
beating  heart  that  she  might  husband  her  breath. 

"Who  is  it  you  mean?"  said  Mrs.  Gunliffe,  who  participated 
in  the  family  feud  against  Trenglos  and  his  granddaughter. 
"What  does  the  girl  clutch  me  for  in  that  way?" 

"He's  dying  then,  that's  all." 

"Who  is  dying?  Is  it  old  Malachi?  If  the  old  man's  bad, 
we'll  send  some  one  down." 

"It  ain't  dada,  it's  Barty!  Where's  himself?  where 's  the 
master?"  But  by  this  time  Mrs.  Gunliffe  was  in  an  agony  of 
despair,  and  was  calling  out  for  assistance  lustily.  Happily 
Gunliffe,  the  father,  was  at  hand,  and  with  him  a  man  from  the 
neighbouring  village. 

"Will  you  not  send  for  the  doctor?"  said  Mally.  "Oh,  man, 
you  should  send  for  the  doctor!" 

Whether  any  orders  were  given  for  the  doctor  she  did  not 
know,  but  in  a  very  few  minutes  she  was  hurrying  across  the 
field  again  towards  the  path  to  the  cove,  and  Gunliffe  with  the 
other  man  and  his  wife  were  following  her. 

As  Mally  went  along  she  recovered  her  voice,  for  their  step 
was  not  so  quick  as  hers,  and  that  which  to  them  was  a  hurried 
movement,  allowed  her  to  get  her  breath  again.  And  as  she 
went  she  tried  to  explain  to  the  father  what  had  happened, 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  47 

saying  but  little,  however,  of  her  own  doings  in  the  matter. 
The  wife  hung  behind  listening,  exclaiming  every  now  and  again 
that  her  boy  was  killed,  and  then  asking  wild  questions  as  to  his 
being  yet  alive.  The  father,  as  he  went,  said  little.  He  was 
known  as  a  silent,  sober  man,  well  spoken  of  for  diligence  and 
general  conduct,  but  supposed  to  be  stern  and  very  hard  when 
angered. 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  top  of  the  path,  the  other  man 
whispered  something  to  him,  and  then  he  turned  round  upon 
Mally  and  stopped  her. 

"If  he  has  come  by  his  death  between  you,  your  blood  shall 
be  taken  for  his,"  said  he. 

Then  the  wife  shrieked  out  that  her  child  had  been  murdered, 
and  Mally,  looking  round  into  the  faces  of  the  three,  saw  that 
her  grandfather's  words  had  come  true.  They  suspected  her 
of  having  taken  the  life,  in  saving  which  she  had  nearly  lost 
her  own. 

She  looked  round  at  them  with  awe  in  her  face,  and  then, 
without  saying  a  word,  preceded  them  down  the  path.  What 
had  she  to  answer  when  such  a  charge  as  that  was  made  against 
her?  If  they  chose  to  say  that  she  pushed  him  into  the  pool, 
and  hit  him  with  her  hook  as  he  lay  amidst  the  waters,  how  could 
she  show  that  it  was  not  so? 

Poor  Mally  knew  little  of  the  law  of  evidence,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  in  their  hands.  But  as  she  went  down 
the  steep  track  with  a  hurried  step,  —  a  step  so  quick  that  they 
could  not  keep  up  with  her,  —  her  heart  was  very  full,  —  very 
full  and  very  high.  She  had  striven  for  the  man's  life  as  though 
he  had  been  her  brother.  The  blood  was  yet  not  dry  on  her  own 
legs  and  arms,  where  she  had  torn  them  in  his  service.  At  one 
moment  she  had  felt  sure  that  she  would  die  with  him  in  that 
pool.  And  now  they  said  that  she  had  murdered  him!  It 
may  be  that  he  was  not  dead,  and  what  would  he  say  if  ever 
he  should  speak  again?    Then  she  thought  of  that  moment  when 


48  MALACHI'S  COVE 

his  eyes  had  opened,  and  he  had  seemed  to  see  her.  She  had 
no  fear  for  herself,  for  her  heart  was  very  high.  But  it  was 
full  also,  —  full  of  scorn,  disdain,  and  wrath. 

When  she  had  reached  the  bottom,  she  stood  close  to  the  door 
of  the  hut  waiting  for  them,  so  that  they  might  precede  her  to 
the  other  group,  which  was  there  in  front  of  them,  at  a  little 
distance  on  the  sand. 

"He  is  there,  and  dada  is  with  him.  Go  and  look  at  him," 
said  Mally. 

The  father  and  mother  ran  on  stumbling  over  the  stones, 
but  Mally  remained  behind  by  the  door  of  the  hut. 

Barty  Gunliffe  was  lying  on  the  sand  where  Mally  had  left 
him,  and  old  Malachi  Trenglos  was  standing  over  him,  resting 
himself  with  difficulty  upon  a  stick. 

"Not  a  move  he's  moved  since  she  left  him,"  said  he,  "not 
a  move.  I  put  his  head  on  the  old  rug  as  you  see,  and  I  tried 
'un  with  a  drop  of  gin,  but  he  wouldn't  take  it,  —  he  wouldn't 
take  it." 

"Oh,  my  boy!  my  boy!"  said  the  mother,  throwing  herself 
beside  her  son  upon  the  sand. 

"Haud  your  tongue,  woman,"  said  the  father,  kneeling 
down  slowly  by  the  lad's  head,  "whimpering  that  way  will  do 
'un  no  good." 

Then  having  gazed  for  a  minute  or  two  upon  the  pale  face 
beneath  him,  he  looked  up  sternly  into  that  of  Malachi 
Trenglos. 

The  old  man  hardly  knew  how  to  bear  this  terrible  inquisition. 

"He  would  come,"  said  Malachi;  "he  brought  it  all  upon 
hisself." 

"Who  was  it  struck  him?"  said  the  father. 

"Sure  he  struck  hisself,  as  he  fell  among  the  breakers." 

"Liar!"  said  the  father,  looking  up  at  the  old  man. 

"They  have  murdered  him!  —  they  have  murdered  him!'1 
shrieked  the  mother. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  49 

"Haud  your  peace,  woman!"  said  the  husband  again.  "They 
shall  give  us  blood  for  blood." 

Mally,  leaning  against  the  corner  of  the  hovel,  heard  it  all, 
but  did  not  stir.  They  might  say  what  they  liked.  They 
might  make  it  out  to  be  murder.  They  might  drag  her  and  her 
grandfather  to  Camelford  Gaol,  and  then  to  Bodmin,  and  the 
gallows;  but  they  could  not  take  from  her  the  conscious  feeling 
that  was  her  own.  She  had  done  her  best  to  save  him,  —  her 
very  best.     And  she  had  saved  him! 

She  remembered  her  threat  to  him  before  they  had  gone  down 
on  the  rocks  together,  and  her  evil  wish.  Those  words  had 
been  very  wicked;  but  since  that  she  had  risked  her  life  to  save 
his.  They  might  say  what  they  pleased  of  her,  and  do  what 
they  pleased.     She  knew  what  she  knew. 

Then  the  father  raised  his  son's  head  and  shoulders  in  his 
arms,  and  called  on  the  others  to  assist  him  in  carrying  Barty 
towards  the  path.  They  raised  him  between  them  carefully 
and  tenderly,  and  lifted  their  burden  on  towards  the  spot  at 
which  Mally  was  standing.  She  never  moved,  but  watched 
them  at  their  work;  and  the  old  man  followed  them,  hobbling 
after  them  with  his  crutch. 

When  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  hut  she  looked  upon 
Barty's  face,  and  saw  that  it  was  very  pale.  There  was  no 
longer  blood  upon  the  forehead,  but  the  great  gash  was  to  be 
seen  there  plainly,  with  its  jagged  cut,  and  the  skin  livid  and 
blue  round  the  orifice.  His  light  brown  hair  was  hanging 
back,  as  she  had  made  it  to  hang  when  she  had  gathered  it  with 
her  hand  after  the  big  wave  had  passed  over  them.  Ah,  how 
beautiful  he  was  in  Mally's  eyes  with  that  pale  face,  and  the 
sad  scar  upon  his  brow!  She  turned  her  face  away,  that  they 
might  not  see  her  tears;  but  she  did  not  move,  nor  did  she  speak. 

But  now,  when  they  had  passed  the  end  of  the  hut,  shuffling 
along  with  their  burden,  she  heard  a  sound  which  stirred  her. 
She  roused  herself  quickly  from  her  leaning  posture,  and  stretched 


SO  MALACHI'S  COVE 

forth  her  head  as  though  to  listen;  then  she  moved  to  follow 
them.  Yes,  they  had  stopped  at  the  bottom  of  the  path,  and 
had  again  laid  the  body  on  the  rocks.  She  heard  that  sound 
again,  as  of  a  long,  long  sigh,  and  then,  regardless  of  any  of 
them,  she  ran  to  the  wounded  man's  head. 

"He  is  not  dead,"  she  said.     "There;  he  is  not  dead." 

As  she  spoke  Barty's  eyes  opened,  and  he  looked  about  him. 

"Barty,  my  boy,  speak  to  me,"  said  the  mother. 

Barty  turned  his  face  upon  his  mother,  smiled,  and  then 
stared  about  him  wildly. 

"How  is  it  with  thee,  lad?"  said  his  father.  Then  Barty 
turned  his  face  again  to  the  latter  voice,  and  as  he  did  so  his 
eyes  fell  upon  Mally. 

"Mally!"hesaid,  "Mally!" 

It  could  have  wanted  nothing  further  to  any  of  those  present 
to  teach  them  that,  according  to  Barty's  own  view  of  the  case, 
Mally  had  not  been  his  enemy!  and,  in  truth,  Mally  herself 
wanted  no  further  triumph.  That  word  had  vindicated  her, 
and  she  withdrew  back  to  the  hut. 

"Dada,"  she  said,  "Barty  is  not  dead,  and  I'm  thinking  they 
won't  say  anything  more  about  our  hurting  him." 

Old  Glos  shook  his  head.  He  was  glad  the  lad  hadn't  met  his 
death  there;  he  didn't  want  the  young  man's  blood,  but  he  knew 
what  folks  would  say.  The  poorer  he  was  the  more  sure  the 
world  would  be  to  trample  on  him.  Mally  said  what  she  could 
to  comfort  him,  being  full  of  comfort  herself. 

She  would  have  crept  up  to  the  farm  if  she  dared,  to  ask 
how  Barty  was.  But  her  courage  failed  her  when  she  thought 
of  that,  so  she  went  to  work  again,  dragging  back  the  weed  she 
had  saved  to  the  spot  at  which  on  the  morrow  she  would  load 
the  donkey.  As  she  did  this  she  saw  Barty's  pony  still  standing 
patiently  under  the  rock,  so  she  got  a  lock  of  fodder  and  threw 
It  down  before  the  beast. 

It  had  become  dark  down  in  the  cove,  but  she  was  still  drag- 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  51 

ging  back  the  seaweed,  when  she  saw  the  glimmer  of  a  lantern 
coming  down  the  pathway.  It  was  a  most  unusual  sight,  for 
lanterns  were  not  common  down  in  Malachi's  Cove.  Down 
came  the  lantern  rather  slowly,  —  much  more  slowly  than  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  descending,  and  then  through  the  gloom  she 
saw  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  path. 
She  went  up  to  him,  and  saw  that  it  was  Mr.  GunlifTe,  the  father. 

"Is  that  Mally?"  said  GunlifTe. 

"Yes,  it  is  Mally;  and  how  is  Barty,  Mr.  GunlifTe?" 

"You  must  come  to  'un  yourself,  now  at  once,"  said  the 
farmer.  "  He  won't  sleep  a  wink  till  he's  seed  you.  You  must 
not  say  but  you'll  come." 

"Sure  I'll  come  if  I'm  wanted,"  said  Mally. 

GunlifTe  waited  a  moment,  thinking  that  Mally  might  have 
to  prepare  herself,  but  Mally  needed  no  preparation.  She 
was  dripping  with  salt  water  from  the  weed  which  she  had 
been  dragging,  and  her  elfin  locks  were  streaming  wildly  from  her 
head;  but,  such  as  she  was,  she  was  ready. 

"Dada's  in  bed,"  she  said,  "and  I  can  go  now  if  you  please." 

Then  GunlifTe  turned  round  and  followed  her  up  the  path, 
wondering  at  the  life  which  this  girl  led  so  far  away  from  all 
her  sex.  It  was  now  dark  night,  and  he  had  found  her  working 
at  the  very  edge  of  the  rolling  waves  by  herself,  in  the  darkness, 
while  the  only  human  being  who  might  seem  to  be  her  pro- 
tector had  already  gone  to  his  bed. 

When  they  were  at  the  top  of  the  cliff  GunlifTe  took  her  by 
her  hand,  and  led  her  along.  She  did  not  comprehend  this, 
but  she  made  no  attempt  to  take  her  hand  from  his.  Some- 
thing he  said  about  falling  on  the  cliffs,  but  it  was  muttered  so 
lowly  that  Mally  hardly  understood  him.  But,  in  truth  the 
man  knew  that  she  had  saved  his  boy's  life,  and  that  he  had 
injured  her  instead  of  thanking  her.  He  was  now  taking  her 
to  his  heart,  and  as  words  were  wanting  to  him,  he  was  showing 
his  love  after  this  silent  fashion.    He  held  her  by  the  hand  as 


52  MALACHI'S  COVE 

though  she  were  a  child,  and  Mally  tripped  along  at  his  side 
asking  him  no  questions. 

When  they  were  at  the  farmyard  gate,  he  stopped  there  for 
a  moment. 

"Mally,  my  girl,"  he  said,  "he'll  not  be  content  till  he  sees 
thee,  but  thou  must  not  stay  long  wi'  him,  lass.  Doctor  says 
he's  weak  like,  and  wants  sleep  badly." 

Mally  merely  nodded  her  head,  and  then  they  entered  the 
house.  Mally  had  never  been  within  it  before,  and  looked  about 
with  wondering  eyes  at  the  furniture  of  the  big  kitchen.  Did 
any  idea  of  her  future  destiny  flash  upon  her  then,  I  wonder? 
But  she  did  not  pause  here  a  moment,  but  was  led  up  to  the 
bedroom  above  stairs,  where  Barty  was  lying  on  his  mother's 
bed. 

"Is  it  Mally  herself?"  said  the  voice  of  the  weak  youth. 

"It's  Mally  herself,"  said  the  mother,  "so  now  you  can  say 
what  you  please." 

"Mally,"  said  he,  "Mally,  it's  along  of  you  that  I'm  alive 
this  moment." 

"I'll  not  forget  it  on  her,"  said  the  father,  with  his  eyes 
turned  away  from  her.     "I'll  never  forget  it  on  her." 

"We  hadn't  a  one  but  only  him,"  said  the  mother,  with 
her  apron  up  to  her  face. 

"Mally,  you'll  be  friends  with  me  now?"  said  Barty. 

To  have  been  made  lady  of  the  manor  of  the  cove  forever, 
Mally  couldn't  have  spoken  a  word  now.  It  was  not  only 
that  the  words  and  presence  of  the  people  there  cowed  her  and 
made  her  speechless,  but  the  big  bed,  and  the  looking-glass, 
and  the  unheard-of  wonders  of  the  chamber  made  her  feel 
her  own  insignificance.  But  she  crept  up  to  Barty's  side,  and 
put  her  hand  upon  his. 

"I'll  come  and  get  the  weed,  Mally;  but  it  shall  all  be  for 
you,"  said  Barty. 

"Indeed,  you  won't  then,  Barty  dear,"  said  the  mother; 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  53 

"you'll  never  go  near  the  awesome  place  again.  What  would 
we  do  if  you  were  took  from  us?" 

"He  mustn'  go  near  the  hole  if  he  does,"  said  Mally,  speaking 
at  last  in  a  solemn  voice,  and  imparting  the  knowledge  which 
she  had  kept  to  herself  while  Barty  was  her  enemy;  "  'specially 
not  if  the  wind's  any  way  from  the  nor'ard." 

"She'd  better  go  down  now,"  said  the  father. 

Barty  kissed  the  hand  which  he  held,  and  Mally,  looking  at 
him  as  he  did  so,  thought  that  he  was  like  an  angel. 

"You'll  come  and  see  us  to-morrow,  Mally,"  said  he. 

To  this  she  made  no  answer,  but  followed  Mrs.  Gunliffe 
out  of  the  room.  When  they  were  down  in  the  kitchen,  the 
mother  had  tea  for  her,  and  thick  milk,  and  a  hot  cake,  —  all 
the  delicacies  which  the  farm  could  afford.  I  don't  know  that 
Mally  cared  much  for  the  eating  and  drinking  that  night,  but 
she  began  to  think  that  the  Gunliffes  were  good  people,  —  very 
good  people.  It  was  better  thus,  at  any  rate,  than  being  accused 
of  murder  and  carried  off  to  Camelford  prison. 

"I'll  never  forget  it  on  her  —  never,"  the  father  had  said. 

Those  words  stuck  to  her  from  that  moment,  and  seemed  to 
sound  in  her  ears  all  the  night.  How  glad  she  was  that  Barty 
had  come  down  to  the  cove,  —  oh,  yes,  how  glad!  There  was 
no  question  of  his  dying  now,  and  as  for  the  blow  on  his  forehead, 
what  harm  was  that  to  a  lad  like  him? 

"But  father  shall  go  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Gunliffe,  when 
Mally  prepared  to  start  for  the  cove  by  herself.  Mally,  how- 
ever, would  not  hear  of  this.  She  could  find  her  way  to  the 
cove  whether  it  was  light  or  dark. 

"Mally,  thou  art  my  child  now,  and  I  shall  think  of  thee  so," 
said  the  mother,  as  the  girl  went  off  by  herself. 

Mally  thought  of  this,  too,  as  she  walked  home.  How  could 
she  become  Mrs.  Gunliffe's  child;  ah,  how? 

I  need  not,  I  think,  tell  the  tale  any  further.  That  Mally 
did  become  Mrs.  Gunliffe's  child,  and  how  she  became  so  the 


54  MALACHI'S  COVE 

reader  will  understand;  and  in  process  of  time  the  big  kitchen 
and  all  the  wonders  of  the  farmhouse  were  her  own.  The 
people  said  that  Barty  Gunliffe  had  married  a  mermaid  out  of 
the  sea;  but  when  it  was  said  in  Mally's  hearing  I  doubt  whether 
she  liked  it;  and  when  Barty  himself  would  call  her  a  mermaid 
she  would  frown  at  him,  and  throw  about  her  black  hair,  and 
pretend  to  cuff  him  with  her  little  hand. 

Old  Glos  was  brought  up  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  lived 
his  few  remaining  days  under  the  roof  of  Mr.  Gunliffe's  house; 
and  as  for  the  cove  and  the  right  of  seaweed,  from  that  time 
forth  all  that  has  been  supposed  to  attach  itself  to  Gunliffe's 
farm,  and  I  do  not  know  that  any  of  the  neighbours  are  pre- 
pared to  dispute  the  right. 


IV.  L'ARRABBIATA1 
Paul  Heyse 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen.  Over  Vesuvius  a  broad  grey 
cloud  of  mist,  stretching  toward  Naples,  darkened  the  villages 
on  that  part  of  the  coast.  The  sea  lay  calm.  Along  the  sea- 
wall, built  in  a  narrow  cove  under  the  high  Sorrentine  cliffs, 
fishermen  and  their  wives  were  already  bestirring  themselves. 
By  means  of  stout  cables  they  were  drawing  to  shore  the  boats 
and  nets  which  had  been  out  overnight.  Others  were  rigging 
their  barks,  or  pulling  oars  and  masts  from  the  huge  barred 
vaults  in  the  rocks.  No  one  was  idle.  Even  the  aged,  who 
could  make  no  more  voyages,  formed  links  in  the  chain  of 
those  who  pulled  at  the  nets.  Here  and  there  on  the  flat 
roofs  little  old  grandmothers  were  standing  with  their  spindles 
or  were  busying  themselves  with  their  grandchildren  while  the 
daughters  helped  their  husbands. 

"Look  there,  Rochella,  there  is  our  Padre  Curato,"  said  one 
old  woman  to  a  little  thing  of  ten  at  her  side,  who  was  swinging 
her  own  small  spindle.  "He  is  just  climbing  into  a  boat. 
Antonino  will  take  him  across  to  Capri.  Maria  Santissima, 
how  sleepy  his  Reverence  looks!" 

With  this  she  waved  her  hand  to  a  small  friendly  looking 
priest,  who,  having  carefully  lifted  up  his  black  coat  and  spread 
it  over  the  wooden  seat,  was  just  settling  himself  in  the  bark. 
The  others  on  shore  stopped  work  in  order  to  watch  the  depar- 
ture of  their  padre,  who  was  bowing  and  smiling  pleasantly  to 
right  and  left. 

"Why  does  he  have  to  go  to  Capri,  grandma?"  asked  the 
child.  "Do  the  people  over  there  have  to  borrow  our  priest 
because  they  haven't  any?" 

1  Translation  copyrighted  by  the  editors.     This  story  is  discussed  on  pages  12-14. 


5  6  L'ARRABBIATA 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  They  have  enough 
priests,  and  fine  churches,  and  even  a  hermit,  which  we  haven't. 
But  over  there  is  a  great  Signora.  For  a  long  time  she  lived  in 
Sorrento  and  was  so  very  sick  that  when  they  thought  she 
couldn't  last  through  the  night,  the  padre  had  to  go  to  her  often 
with  the  Most  Holy  Host.  But  the  Holy  Virgin  helped  her  and 
she  has  become  happy  again  and  well,  and  can  bathe  in  the  sea 
every  day.  When  she  went  from  here  to  Capri,  she  gave  a  pile 
of  ducats  to  the  church  and  to  the  poor.  She  wouldn't  leave, 
they  say,  until  the  padre  promised  to  go  over  to  see  her  so  that 
she  could  confess  to  him.  We're  lucky  to  have  him  for  a  priest. 
He  is  as  gifted  as  an  archbishop  and  in  great  demand  with 
people  of  rank.  May  the  Madonna  be  with  him!"  And 
with  this  she  waved  down  to  the  little  boat  that  was  just 
casting  off. 

The  priest  looked  anxiously  across  the  bay  toward  Naples. 
"Shall  we  have  good  weather,  my  boy?"  he  asked. 

"The  sun  isn't  up  yet,"  answered  the  young  man;  "but 
when  it  comes,  it  will  make  short  work  of  that  bit  of  mist." 

"Go  ahead  then,  so  that  we  arrive  before  the  heat." 

Antonino  had  just  reached  for  the  long  oar  to  push  the 
boat  out,  when  he  stopped  and  looked  up  toward  the  top  of 
the  steep  path  that  leads  from  the  village  of  Sorrento  down 
to  the  quay.  The  slender  figure  of  a  girl,  hurrying  down  the 
stones  and  waving  her  handkerchief,  came  into  view.  She 
was  poorly  enough  clad  and  carried  a  little  bundle  under  her 
arm.  She  had  a  way  of  tossing  her  head  that  might  have 
been  noble  had  there  not  been  a  touch  of  wildness  about  it. 
The  black  braids  which  she  had  wound  about  her  forehead 
became  her  like  a  crown. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?"  asked  the  priest. 

"  Somebody  else,  who  probably  wants  to  go  to  Capri,  is  coming 
down.  If  you  don't  mind,  Padre,  —  we'll  not  go  any  the 
slower  for  that.     She's  only  a  young  thing,  hardly  eighteen." 


PAUL  HEYSE  57 

At  this  instant  the  girl  stepped  out  from  behind  the  wall  that 
bordered  the  winding  path.  "Lamella?"  said  the  priest. 
"What  has  she  to  do  in  Capri?" 

Antonino  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  girl  hurried  forward 
looking  straight  before  her. 

"Hello,  l'Arrabbiata!"  *  cried  several  of  the  young  sailors. 
They  would  probably  have  said  more  if  the  presence  of  the  cu- 
rate had  not  restrained  them;  for  the  haughty,  silent  way  in 
which  the  young  girl  took  the  greeting  seemed  to  irritate  several 
of  the  bolder  spirits  among  them. 

"How  do  you  do,  Laurella?"  said  the  priest.  "How  are 
you?    Will  you  go  to  Capri  with  us?  " 

"If  I  may,  Padre." 

"Ask  Antonino.  He  is  captain  of  the  ship.  Each  is  master 
of  his  own  and  God  is  master  of  us  all." 

"Here  is  a  half  carlino,"  said  Laurella,  without  looking  at 
the  young  boatman,  "if  you  can  take  me  for  that?" 

"You  can  use  it  better  than  I,"  the  boy  muttered  as  he 
pushed  back  some  of  the  baskets  of  oranges  to  make  room 
for  her.  He  was  to  sell  them  at  Capri,  for  the  little  island 
does  not  produce  enough  for  the  consumption  of  its  many 
tourists. 

"I  won't  go  for  nothing,"  said  the  girl,  and  her  black  eye- 
brows scowled. 

"Come,  child,"  said  the  priest,  "he  is  a  good  boy  and  does 
not  want  to  get  rich  on  your  bit  of  poverty.  Come,  climb 
in,"  and  he  offered  her  his  hand,  —  "sit  down  beside  me.  See, 
he  has  put  down  his  coat  so  that  you  will  have  a  more  comfort- 
able place.  He  was  not  so  good  to  me,  but  young  people  .  .  . 
they're  all  that  way.  More  pains  are  taken  for  one  young 
lady  than  for  ten  holy  fathers.  There,  there,  do  not  excuse 
yourself,  Tonino.  The  dear  Lord  so  arranged  it,  that  like  is 
attracted  to  like." 

1  "Cross-patch." 


58  L'ARRABBIATA 

Laurella,  in  the  mean  time,  had  got  into  the  boat.  Without 
saying  a  word  to  anybody,  she  pushed  the  coat  to  one  side, 
and  sat  down.  The  young  sailor  muttered  something  between 
his  teeth,  then  he  pushed  vigorously  against  the  quay  and  the 
little  boat  flew  out  into  the  bay. 

"What  have  you  in  your  bundle?"  asked  the  priest  as  they 
glided  over  the  sea,  which  was  just  lighting  up  with  the  first 
rays  of  the  sun. 

"Silk,  yarn,  and  a  loaf  of  bread,  Padre.  I'm  going  to  sell  the 
silk  to  a  lady  in  Capri  who  makes  ribbons,  and  the  yarn  is  for 
another  woman." 

"Did  you  spin  it  yourself?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"If  I  remember  correctly,  you  learned  how  to  weave  ribbons, 
too?" 

"Yes,  sir.  But  mother  is  worse  again  so  that  I  can't  leave 
the  house,  and  we  can't  pay  for  a  loom  of  our  own." 

"Worse?  Dear,  dear!  But  she  was  sitting  up  when  I  called 
at  Easter." 

"Spring  is  always  the  worst  time  for  her.  Since  the  big 
storms  and  the  earthquakes  she  has  had  to  be  in  bed  all  day 
because  of  her  pain." 

"Keep  on  praying  and  begging,  child.  The  Holy  Virgin 
may  intercede.  And  be  good  and  industrious  so  that  your  prayer 
may  be  heard." 

After  a  pause:  "When  you  came  down  to  the  shore  —  they 
called,  'Hello  l'Arrabbiata!'  Why  do  they  call  you  that? 
It  isn't  a  nice  name  for  a  Christian,  who  should  be  meek  and 
humble." 

A  flush  covered  the  girl's  brown  face  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"They  make  fun  of  me  because  I  do  not  sing  and  dance  and 
talk  a  lot  like  the  others.  They  ought  to  let  me  alone.  I 
do  nothing  to  them." 

"But  you  can  be  friendly  to  everybody.    Let  the  others 


PAUL  HEYSE  59 

dance  and  sing.  Their  life  is  easier.  But  a  good  word  sounds 
well,  even  if  you  are  not  happy." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  contracted  her  dark  eyebrows  as 
though  she  wanted  to  hide  her  black  eyes  beneath  them.  For 
a  while  they  rowed  in  silence.  The  sun  now  stood  gloriously 
above  the  mountains,  the  peak  of  Vesuvius  towered  through  the 
blanket  of  vapors  that  still  covered  its  base;  and  the  houses 
on  the  plain  of  Sorrento  gleamed  white  in  their  green  orange- 
gardens. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  from  that  painter,  Laurella, 
that  Neopolitan,  who  wanted  to  marry  you?"  asked  the  priest. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He  came  to  draw  a  picture  of  you.  Why  did  you  not  let 
him?" 

"What  did  he  want  it  for?  There  are  others  prettier  than 
I.  And  then  .  .  .  who  knows  what  he  would  have  done  with 
it.  He  might  have  bewitched  me  with  it  and  lost  me  my  soul,  or 
he  might  have  even  brought  about  my  death,  my  mother  said." 

"Don't  believe  such  sinful  things,"  said  the  preacher  earnestly. 
"Are  you  not  always  in  God's  hand,  without  whose  will  not 
a  hair  can  fall  from  your  head?  And  can  a  man  with  such  a 
picture  in  his  hand  be  stronger  than  God?  From  that  you 
should  see  that  he  was  fond  of  you.  Did  he  want  to  marry 
you?" 

She  was  silent. 

"And  why  did  you  refuse  him?  He  is  said  to  have  been  a 
good  man,  and  very  handsome,  and  he  could  have  supported 
you  and  your  mother  better  than  you  can  do  with  your  bit 
of  spinning  and  silk  winding." 

"We  are  poor  people,"  she  said  fiercely,  "and  my  mother  has 
been  sick  for  such  a  long  time.  We  should  only  have  been  a 
burden  to  him.  And  I  am  not  good  enough  for  a  signor. 
When  his  friends  came  to  see  him,  he  would  have  been  ashamed 
of  me." 


60  L'ARRABBIATA 

"How  you  talk!  I  tell  you  he  was  a  good  man.  He  even 
wanted  to  move  over  to  Sorrento.  It  will  be  a  long  time  before 
another  man  like  that  comes.  He  was  sent  from  heaven  to 
help  you." 

"I  don't  want  a  husband  at  all!"  she  said  stubbornly,  as  if 
talking  to  herself. 

''Have  you  taken  a  vow,  or  do  you  want  to  enter  a  convent?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"People  who  hold  your  stubborness  up  to  you  are  right, 
even  though  the  name  they  call  you  for  it  isn't  very  pretty. 
Remember  that  you  are  not  alone  in  the  world  and  that  you 
make  your  mother's  life  and  her  illness  harder  because  of  your 
perversity.  What  weighty  reasons  can  you  have  for  refusing 
every  honest  hand  that  reaches  out  to  support  you  and  your 
mother?     Answer  me,  Laurella." 

"I  have  a  reason,"  she  answered  softly,  and  hesitatingly, 
"but  I  cannot  tell  it." 

"You  cannot  tell  it?  Not  even  to  me?  Not  to  your  father 
confessor  whom  you  used  to  trust  as  wishing  you  well?  Or  did 
you  not?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Do  unburden  your  heart,  child.  If  you  are  right,  I  will  be 
the  first  one  to  say  so.  But  you  are  young  and  do  not 
know  the  world  very  well,  and  you  might  regret  it  later  if 
you  have  thrown  away  your  happiness  because  of  childish 
notions." 

She  threw  a  quick  shy  glance  over  her  shoulder  at  the  boy  who 
sat  behind  them  with  his  cap  drawn  down  over  his  eyes,  busily 
rowing.  He  was  looking  over  the  side  into  the  water  and  seemed 
to  be  sunk  in  his  own  thoughts.  The  priest  saw  the  glance 
and  leaned  closer  to  her. 

"You  did  not  know  my  father,"  she  whispered,  and  her 
eyes  darkened. 

"Your  father?     He  died,  didn't  he,  when  you  were  barely 


PAUL  HEYSE  61 

ten  years  old.     What  has  your  father  —  may  his  soul  rest  in 
paradise  —  to  do  with  your  stubbornness?" 

"You  did  not  know  him,  Padre.  You  do  not  know  that  he 
alone  is  to  blame  for  mother's  illness." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Because  he  ill-treated  her,  and  beat  her,  and  kicked  her. 
I  still  remember  the  nights  when  he  would  come  home  raging. 
She  would  never  say  a  word  to  him  and  would  do  everything 
he  wanted.  But  he  beat  her  so  that  my  heart  would  nearly 
break.  Then  I  would  pull  the  cover  over  my  head  and  would 
pretend  to  be  asleep,  but  I  would  cry  all  night.  And  then 
when  he  would  see  her  lying  on  the  floor,  he  would  change 
suddenly.  He  would  pick  her  up  and  kiss  her  so  that  she  would 
cry  out  he  was  going  to  suffocate  her.  Mother  forbade  me  to 
say  a  word  about  it;  but  it  weakened  her  so  that  in  all  these 
years  since  his  death  she  has  never  been  well.  And  if  she  should 
die,  which  Heaven  forbid,  I  shall  know  who  is  to  blame." 

The  little  priest  nodded  his  head  gently  and  seemed  unde- 
cided as  to  how  far  he  should  agree  with  his  parishioner.  Fi- 
nally he  said:  "Forgive  him  as  your  mother  has  forgiven  him. 
Do  not  think  of  those  sad  things,  Laurella.  Better  times  are 
in  store  for  you  and  they  will  make  you  forget  all  this." 

"I  shall  never  forget  it,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder.  "And 
listen,  Padre,  that  is  why  I  never  want  to  marry.  I  never  want 
to  submit  to  anyone  who  would  abuse  me  and  then  caress  me. 
Now,  when  somebody  wants  to  strike  me  or  kiss  me  I  know 
how  to  protect  myself.  But  my  mother  couldn't  protect  her- 
self, either  from  the  blows  or  from  the  kisses,  because  she 
loved  him.  I  ...  I  never  want  to  love  anyone  so  much 
that  I  should  become  sick  and  miserable  for  his  sake." 

"You  talk  and  act  just  like  a  child  that  knows  nothing  about 
what  happens  in  the  world.  Are  all  men  like  your  poor  father? 
Do  they  all  yield  to  every  mood  and  passion  and  abuse  their 
wives?     Have  you  not  seen  enough  honest  people  in  the  neigh- 


62  L'ARRABBIATA 

borhood,  and  enough  wives  that  live  in  peace  and  harmony 
with  their  husbands?" 

"Nobody  knew  about  my  father  either,  and  how  he  acted  to 
my  mother;  for  she  would  have  died  ten  thousand  times  rather 
than  have  told  anybody  or  complained.  And  all  of  that  be- 
cause she  loved  him.  If  that's  the  way  love  is,  if  it  closes  your 
lips  when  you  should  cry  for  help,  and  makes  you  defenseless 
against  worse  harm  than  your  worst  enemy  could  do  to  you, 
I  will  never  give  my  heart  to  any  man." 

"I  tell  you  that  you  are  a  child  and  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying.  Your  heart  will  not  ask  you  if  you  want  to  love  or  not; 
and  when  the  right  time  comes,  all  this  that  you  have  put  in 
your  head  will  not  help  you."  Again,  after  a  pause  —  "And 
that  painter,  did  you  believe  him  capable  of  being  cruel  to  you?" 

"He  made  eyes  like  those  I  saw  my  father  make  when  he  would 
step  away  from  mother  and  want  to  take  her  in  his  arms  again 
and  say  nice  things  to  her.  That  sort  of  eyes  I  know  very  well. 
They  can  belong  to  a  man  who  allows  himself  to  beat  a  wife 
who  has  never  done  him  any  harm.  It  frightened  me  to  see 
those  eyes  again." 

Then  she  was  persistently  silent.  The  priest  was  silent  too. 
He  remembered  many  a  pretty  passage  from  the  Bible  that  he 
could  have  held  up  to  the  girl.  But  the  presence  of  the  young 
sailor,  who  had  become  restless  toward  the  end  of  the  con- 
fession, closed  his  mouth. 

When,  after  two  hours,  they  had  arrived  in  the  little  harbor 
of  Capri,  Antonino  lifted  the  reverend  father  out  of  the  boat, 
carried  him  through  the  shallow  water,  and  set  him  down 
respectfully.  But  Laurella  did  not  wish  to  wait  for  Antonino 
to  return.  She  pulled  her  skirts  together,  took  her  wooden 
shoes  in  her  right  hand,  her  bundle  in  the  left,  and  splashed  hur- 
riedly to  shore. 

"I  shall  probably  stay  late  in  Capri,"  said  the  padre,  "and 
you  need  not  wait  for  me.    Perhaps  I  shall  not  come  home  until 


PAUL  HEYSE  63 

tomorrow.  And  you,  Laurella,  when  you  get  back,  greet 
your  mother  for  me.  I  shall  call  on  her  this  week.  Shall  you 
be  going  back  before  night?" 

"Yes,  if  I  have  a  chance,"  said  the  girl,  and  pretended  to  be 
arranging  her  dress. 

"You  know  that  I  have  to  go  back,"  said  Antonino,  in  what 
he  thought  a  very  indifferent  tone  of  voice.  "I'll  wait  for 
you  until  Ave  Maria.  If  you  do  not  get  here  by  then  it  will 
be  all  the  same  to  me." 

"You  must  come,   Laurella,"   interrupted  the  little  man. 

"You  cannot  leave  your  mother  alone  all  night Is 

it  far,  where  you  are  going?" 

"To  a  vineyard  in  Anacapri." 

"And  I  must  go  toward  Capri.  God  bless  you,  child,  and  you, 
my  son." 

Laurella  kissed  his  hand  and  murmured  a  farewell  which  the 
Padre  and  Antonino  might  divide  between  them.  Antonino, 
however,  did  not  appropriate  it.  He  took  off  his  hat  to  the 
padre  and  did  not  look  at  Laurella. 

When  both  had  turned  their  backs  to  him,  however,  he  let 
his  eyes  rest  only  a  short  time  on  the  reverend  father,  who  was 
ploughing  his  way  with  difficulty  through  the  bed  of  loose  gravel; 
and  then  he  turned  toward  the  girl,  who,  with  her  hands  before 
her  eyes  to  protect  them  against  the  glare,  had  started  for  the 
hill  on  the  opposite  side.  At  a  point  where  the  road  entered  the 
walls  on  the  heights,  she  stood  still  a  moment  as  though  to  take 
breath  and  look  round.  The  quay  lay  at  her  feet;  round 
her  towered  the  cliffs;  the  sea  was  a  strangely  glorious  blue. 
It  was  well  worth  a  minute's  stop.  But  it  happened  that  her 
glance,  hurrying  past  Antonino's  boat,  met  the  glance  which 
he  had  sent  after  her.  They  each  made  a  movement  as  people 
do  who  want  to  excuse  themselves  for  something  that  has 
happened  only  by  mistake,  then  the  girl,  with  a  dark  expression 
about  her  mouth,  continued  her  way. 


64  L'ARRABBIATA 

It  was  just  an  hour  after  noon,  but  Antonino  had  already 
been  sitting  for  two  hours  upon  the  bench  before  the  tavern 
which  the  fisherman  frequented.  Something  seemed  to  be  on 
his  mind,  for  he  would  jump  up  every  five  minutes,  step  out  into 
the  sunshine,  and  carefully  scrutinize  the  two  roads  that  led  to 
the  left  and  to  the  right  toward  the  two  island  villages.  The 
weather  seemed  suspicious  to  him,  he  would  say  to  the  landlady 
of  the  tavern.  To  be  sure,  it  was  still  clear,  but  he  knew  what 
this  color  in  the  sky  and  sea  meant.  It  had  looked  just  like 
that  before  the  last  great  storm  when  he  had  been  able  to  reach 
shore  with  the  English  family  only  with  the  greatest  effort. 
The  landlady  would  probably  remember. 

"No,"  said  the  landlady. 

Well,  she  should  think  of  him,  if  it  didn't  change  before 
nightfall. 

"Are  there  many  tourists  up  in  the  town?"  asked  the  land- 
lady after  a  while. 

"It  is  just  beginning.  Until  now  we  have  had  pretty  bad 
times.     Those  who  come  for  bathing  still  delay." 

"We  have  had  a  late  spring.  Have  you  made  more  money 
than  we  at  Capri? 

"If  I  had  had  only  the  boat,  I  shouldn't  have  been  able  to 
eat  macaroni  twice  a  week.  Now  and  then  I  had  to  take  a  letter 
to  Naples,  or  row  a  signor  out  into  the  bay  for  fishing;  but  that 
was  all.  But  you  know  that  my  uncle  has  some  big  orange 
gardens  and  is  a  rich  man.  "  'Tonino'  ,  he  said,  'as  long  as  I 
live  you  shall  not  suffer  want.  And  afterwards  you  will  be 
taken  care  of.'     So  with  God's  help,  I  got  through  the  winter." 

"Has  your  uncle  any  children?" 

"No.  He  was  never  married  and  was  abroad  for  a  long  time, 
where  he  picked  up  many  a  good  piaster.  Now  he  intends  to 
open  a  large  fishery  and  put  me  in  charge  of  the  entire  business 
so  that  I  can  look  after  it. " 

"So  your  future  is  made,  Antonino." 


PAUL  HEYSE  65 

The  young  sailor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Everybody  has  his  own  burden  to  carry,"  he  said.  Then 
he  jumped  up  and  looked  to  the  right  and  the  left  as  though 
questioning  the  weather,  although  he  must  have  known  that 
there  was  only  one  weather  side. 

"I'll  bring  you  another  bottle.  Your  uncle  can  pay  for  it,'; 
said  the  hostess. 

"Just  a  glass.  You  have  a  fiery  wine  here,  and  my  head  is 
already  getting  hot." 

"It  doesn't  get  into  the  blood.  You  can  drink  as  much  as 
you  want.  Here  comes  my  husband.  You'll  have  to  stay 
a  while  and  talk  to  him." 

With  his  net  hung  over  his  shoulders,  his  red  cap  pulled  down 
about  his  curly  hair,  the  stately  host  of  the  inn  was  just  returning 
from  the  heights.  He  had  taken  the  fish  which  had  been 
ordered  by  the  rich  signora  who  wanted  them  for  the  dinner  of 
the  padre  of  Sorrento.  When  he  became  aware  of  the  young 
sailor,  he  waved  him  a  hearty  welcome  and  then  sat  down 
beside  him  on  the  bench  and  began  to  talk  and  ask  questions. 
His  wife  was  just  bringing  a  second  bottle  of  the  pure  unadul- 
terated Capri,  when  the  sand  at  the  left  crunched,  and  Laurella 
came  down  the  road  from  Anacapri.  She  nodded  her  head 
slightly,  and  stood  still  as  though  undecided. 

Antonino  jumped  up.  "I  must  go,"  he  said.  "It's  a  girl 
that  came  over  this  morning  with  the  Signor  Curato  and  who 
wants  to  go  home  to-night  to  her  sick  mother." 

"Oh  come,  it's  a  long  time  till  night,"  said  the  fisherman. 
"She  will  have  time  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  too.  Wife,  bring 
another  glass." 

"Thanks,  but  I'll  not  drink,"  said  Laurella,  and  remained 
at  some  distance. 

"Fill  up  the  glass,  wife.  Fill  up  the  glass.  She  wants  to  be 
persuaded." 

"Let  her  alone,"  said  the  boy.      "She's  determined.      What 


66  L'ARRABBIATA 

she  doesn't  want,  no  saint  can  make  her  take."  And  with 
this  he  took  a  hurried  farewell,  ran  down  to  the  boat,  untied 
the  rope,  and  stood  waiting  for  the  girl.  She  said  good-bye 
to  the  hostess  of  the  inn  and  walked  hesitatingly  after.  First 
she  looked  around  on  all  sides,  as  if  she  expected  that  there  would 
be  other  passengers.  The  quay,  however,  was  deserted;  the 
fishermen  were  sleeping  or  were  out  in  the  bay  with  their  lines 
and  nets.  A  few  women  and  children  were  sitting  at  their 
doors,  sleeping  or  spinning,  and  the  strangers  who  had  come 
across  in  the  morning  were  waiting  for  a  cooler  time  of  day  to 
go  back.  She  could  not  look  about  for  long,  however;  for  before 
she  could  stop  him,  Antonino  had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and 
carried  her  like  a  child  to  the  boat.  Then  he  jumped  in  after 
her,  and  with  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars  they  were  out  in  the 
open  sea. 

She  seated  herself  in  the  bow  and  half  turned  her  back  to 
him,  so  that  he  could  see  her  only  from  the  side.  Her  expres- 
sion was  now  even  more  serious  than  usual.  Her  hair  hung 
down  over  the  low  forehead,  a  willful  expression  trembled 
around  the  fine  nostrils,  her  full  mouth  was  tightly  closed. 
After  they  had  gone  on  silently  for  a  while,  she  felt  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  took  the  bread  out  of  its  cloth,  and  put  the  latter 
over  her  hair.  Then  she  began  to  make  her  dinner  of  the  bread, 
for  she  had  eaten  nothing  at  Capri. 

Antonino  could  not  long  watch  her  in  idleness.  He  took 
two  oranges  from  a  basket  he  had  brought  over  full  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  said:  "Here  is  something  to  eat  with  your  bread, 
Laurella.  Don't  think  that  I  kept  them  for  you.  They  rolled 
out  of  the  basket  into  the  boat,  and  I  found  them  when  I  put 
the  empty  baskets  back  again. " 

"You  eat  them.     This  bread  is  enough  for  me." 

"They  are  refreshing  in  the  heat,  and  you've  been  walking 
a  long  time." 

"They  gave  me  a  glass  of  water  back  there  that  refreshed  me. " 


PAUL  HEYSE  67 

"As  you  will,"  he  said  and  let  them  fall  back  into  the  basket. 

A  new  silence.  The  sea  was  calm  as  a  mirror  and  hardly 
stirred  about  the  keel.  Even  the  white  sea  birds  that  nest  in 
caves  on  the  shore  went  about  their  work  of  pillage  in  silence. 

"You  might  take  these  two  oranges  to  your  mother,"  An- 
tonino  began  again. 

"We  still  have  some  left  at  home,  and  when  they  are  gone, 
I'll  go  and  buy  some  more." 

"Take  them  to  your  mother  with  my  compliments." 

"She  does  not  know  you." 

"You  could  tell  her  who  I  am." 

"I  do  not  know  you  either." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  she  had  denied  knowing  him 
in  this  way.  A  year  before,  when  the  painter  had  first  come  to 
Sorrento,  it  happened  one  Sunday  that  Antonino,  with  some 
other  young  fellows  of  the  town,  was  playing  boccia  in  a  square 
near  the  main  street.  There,  the  painter  for  the  first  time 
met  Laurella,  who  walked  past  without  seeing  him  as  she  carried 
a  water  jug  on  her  head.  The  young  Neopolitan,  struck  by 
her  beauty,  stood  still  and  watched  her,  although  he  was  directly 
in  the  course  of  the  game  and  could  have  got  out  of  the  way 
by  moving  a  few  steps  to  either  side.  A  ball,  none  too  gently 
thrown,  that  hit  his  ankle,  reminded  him  that  this  was  not  the 
place  to  lose  himself  in  thought.  He  looked  around  as  though 
he  expected  an  apology.  The  young  sailor  who  had  rolled  the 
ball  stood  silent  and  defiant  among  his  friends  and  the  stranger 
found  it  better  to  avoid  an  argument  and  to  pass  on.  But  people 
had  talked  about  the  affair  and  they  talked  still  more  when  the 
painter  openly  courted  Laurella.  "I  do  not  know  him,"  she 
had  said  rather  unwillingly,  when  the  artist  had  asked  her  if 
she  was  refusing  him  because  of  that  impolite  boy.  And  she, 
too,  had  heard  about  the  gossip.  But  since  then,  whenever  she 
met  Tonino,  she  had  recognized  him  well  enough. 

So  now  they  sat  in  the  boat  like  the  bitterest  enemies  and 


68  L'ARRABBIATA 

the  hearts  of  both  were  beating  violently.  Antonino's  face, 
which  was  usually  good-natured,  was  intensely  red;  his  oars 
struck  the  waves  so  that  the  foam  flew  over  him,  and  at  inter- 
vals his  lips  trembled  as  though  he  were  speaking  evil  words. 
She  pretended  not  to  notice  him,  looked  unconcerned,  and 
leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  boat  to  let  the  water  run  through  her 
fingers.  Then  she  took  the  cloth  from  her  head  and  arranged 
her  hair  as  though  she  were  all  alone  in  the  boat.  Only  her 
eyebrows  wrinkled  and  she  held  her  wet  hands  on  her  cheeks 
to  cool  them  in  vain. 

Now  they  were  in  the  middle  of  the  bay  and  neither  near  nor 
far  was  there  a  sail  to  be  seen.  The  island  had  been  left  behind 
and  the  shore  lay  far  off  in  the  hazy  sunlight.  Not  even  a 
seagull  flew  through  the  deep  loneliness.  Antonino  looked 
around.  A  thought  seemed  to  strike  him.  The  red  suddenly 
disappeared  from  his  cheeks  and  he  let  the  oars  fall.  Involun- 
tarily Laurella,  tense  but  fearless,  looked  at  him. 

"This  must  stop,"  the  boy  suddenly  burst  out.  "This  has 
been  going  on  long  enough  and  it's  a  wonder  that  I  haven't  gone 
to  pieces  over  it.  'You  don't  know  me,'  you  say.  Haven't 
you  seen  that  I  have  been  passing  you  like  a  madman,  with  my 
heart  full  of  things  to  say  to  you?  You  put  on  your  sullen  look 
and  turn  your  back  on  me." 

"What  did  I  have  to  say  to  you?"  she  replied  shortly.  'T 
have  seen  that  you  wanted  to  pick  up  an  acquaintance  with  me; 
but  I  didn't  want  people  to  gossip  about  me  for  nothing  at 
all.     I  don't  want  you  for  a  husband,  you  or  anyone  else!" 

"Anyone  else?  You  won't  always  talk  like  that!  Because 
you  sent  the  painter  away?  Bah!  You  were  just  a  child  then. 
You'll  get  lonesome  sometime,  and  then,  silly  as  you  are, 
you'll  take  the  first  one  you  see." 

"Nobody  can  tell  his  future.  It  may  be  that  I  will  change 
my  mind.     What  business  is  it  of  yours?" 

"What  business  is  it  of  mine?"  he  cried,  and  jumped  up  from 


PAUL  HEYSE  69 

the  rowing  bench  so  that  the  little  boat  shook.  "What  business 
is  it  of  mine?  And  you  still  ask  that  when  you  know  how  I  feel? 
May  anyone  whom  you  treat  better  than  me  die  in  misery!" 

"Did  I  ever  promise  you  anything?  Can  I  help  it  that  your 
head's  a  little  off?     What  sort  of  right  have  you  over  me?" 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "it  isn't  written  down.  No  lawyer  put  it 
into  Latin  and  sealed  it,  but  this  I  know,  I've  as  much  right  to 
have  you  as  to  enter  heaven  if  I've  been  an  honest  man.  Do 
you  think  I  like  to  stand  and  watch  you  when  you  go  to  church 
with  some  one  else,  and  the  girls  go  past  me  and  shrug  their 
shoulders?  Do  you  think  I'll  let  myself  be  made  a  fool  of  like 
that?" 

"Do  as  you  like.  You  can't  frighten  me  no  matter  how  much 
you  threaten.     I'll  do  as  I  please,  too." 

"You  won't  talk  that  way  very  long,"  he  said  trembling. 
"I  am  man  enough  not  to  let  my  life  be  ruined  any  longer  by 
such  stubbornness.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  in  my  power 
here  and  that  you  must  do  what  I  want?" 

She  drew  back  slightly,  but  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Kill  me  if  you  dare,"  she  said  slowly. 

"One  shouldn't  do  things  half  way,"  he  said  and  his  voice 
was  hoarse.  "There  is  room  for  both  of  us  in  the  sea.  I 
can't  help  you,  child."  He  spoke  sympathetically  as  from  a 
dream.  "But  we  must  go  over  —  both  of  us  — at  the  same 
time  —  and  nowV  He  shouted  this  last  at  the  top  of  his  voice 
and  suddenly  took  hold  of  her  with  both  arms.  But  almost 
immediately  he  pulled  back  his  right  hand.  Blood  spurted 
from  it.     In  her  passion  she  had  bitten  him  sharply. 

"Must  I  do  what  you  want?"  she  cried,  and  with  a  quick  turn 
she  pushed  him  away.  "Let's  see  if  I'm  in  your  power!" 
With  this  she  jumped  overboard  and  disappeared  for  a  second 
in  the  depths. 

She  reappeared  almost  immediately.  Her  dress  was  wrapped 
tightly  about  her.     Her  hair,  loosened  by  the  waves,  hung  down 


7o  L'ARRABBIATA 

heavily  over  her  neck.  Her  arms  moved  steadily  and  without 
a  word  she  swam  away  from  the  boat  toward  the  shore.  A 
sudden  fear  seemed  to  have  paralyzed  the  boy's  senses.  He 
stood  in  the  boat  half  stooping,  his  eyes  staring  after  her,  as 
though  a  miracle  were  happening.  Then  he  shook  himself, 
jumped  for  the  oars  and  rowed  after  her  with  all  the  strength 
he  could  command,  while  the  floor  of  the  boat  became  redder  with 
his  blood. 

Although  she  was  swimming  quickly  he  was  beside  her  in 
a  moment.  "Maria  Santissima!"  he  cried,  "Come  back  to 
the  boat.  I've  been  a  fool.  God  knows  what  befogged  my 
brain.  Something  flashed  in  my  brain  like  lightning  from 
heaven  and  I  was  afire  and  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing  or 
saying.  I  shan't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Laurella,  just  come 
back  to  the  boat  and  save  your  life ! " 

She  swam  on  as  though  she  had  heard  nothing. 

"You  can't  reach  shore.  It's  two  good  miles  from  here. 
Think  of  your  mother.  If  something  should  happen  to  you 
she'd  die  of  horror." 

With  a  glance  she  measured  the  distance  to  the  shore.  Then, 
without  saying  a  word,  she  swam  to  the  boat  and  grasped 
the  sides  with  both  hands.  He  stood  up  to  help  her.  His 
coat,  which  had  been  lying  on  the  bench,  slipped  into  the  ocean 
when  the  boat  tipped  to  one  side  with  her  weight.  She  pulled 
herself  up  gracefully  and  climbed  into  her  old  place.  Then, 
when  he  saw  that  she  was  safe,  he  took  his  oars  again.  She, 
however,  wrung  out  her  dress  and  pressed  the  water  from  her 
braids.  In  doing  this  she  looked  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and 
noticed  the  blood.  She  glanced  quickly  at  his  hand.  It 
held  the  oar  as  though  it  were  not  wounded.  "Here,"  she 
said,  and  she  handed  him  her  cloth.  He  shook  his  head  and 
kept  on  rowing.  Finally  she  stood  up,  stepped  over  to  him, 
and  bound  the  cloth  tightly  round  the  deep  wound.  Then  in 
spite  of  his  struggle  she  took  the  oar  and  sat  down  beside  him. 


PAUL  HEYSE  71 

She  did  this  without  looking  at  him.  With  her  eyes  fastened 
on  the  oar  that  was  reddened  with  blood  she  drove  the  boat 
along  with  strong  strokes.  They  were  both  pale  and  quiet. 
When  they  approached  the  land  they  met  some  fishermen 
going  to  put  their  nets  out  over  night.  They  called  to  An- 
tonino  and  teased  Laurella.     Neither  looked  up  or  answered. 

The  sun  still  stood  high  over  Procida  when  they  reached  the 
quay.  Laurella  shook  her  dress,  now  completely  dried,  and 
sprang  out.  The  old  spinning  woman  who  had  seen  them  go 
away  in  the  morning  still  stood  on  the  roof.  "What's  the 
matter  with  your  hand,  Tonino?"  she  called  to  him.  "Dear 
Jesus!  the  boat  is  swimming  in  blood." 

"It's  nothing,  Granny,"  said  the  boy.  "I  tore  it  on  a  nail 
that  was  sticking  out  too  far.  It'll  be  all  right  by  to-morrow. 
That  confounded  blood  on  my  hand  makes  it  look  worse  than 
it  is." 

"I'll  come  down  and  put  herbs  on  it,  my  lad.  Wait  a  minute, 
I'll  be  there  directly." 

"Don't  bother,  Granny.  It's  taken  care  of  already,  and 
to-morrow  it  will  be  gone  and  forgotten.  I've  got  a  healthy 
skin  that  grows  over  every  wound." 

"Addio,"  said  Laurella  and  turned  into  the  path  that  led 
up  hill. 

"Goodnight,"  cried  the  boy  without  looking  up.  Then  he 
took  the  oars  and  baskets  from  the  boat  and  climbed  up  the 
little  stone  steps  to  his  hut. 

Alone  in  his  two  rooms,  he  paced  back  and  forth.  Through 
the  little  open  windows  which  could  be  closed  only  by  means  of 
wooden  blinds,  the  wind  was  blowing.  It  was  more  refreshing 
here  than  on  the  ocean  and  the  loneliness  did  him  good.  For 
a  long  time  he  stood  in  front  of  the  little  picture  of  the  Virgin 
and  devoutly  contemplated  the  halo  of  silvered  paper  which 
was  pasted  around  her  head.     It  never  occurred  to  him  to 


72  L'ARRABBIATA 

pray.  What  should  he  ask  for  —  since  he  no  longer 
hoped? 

The  sun  seemed  to  stand  still  to-day.  He  longed  for  darkness, 
for  he  was  tired.  The  loss  of  blood  had  weakened  him  more 
than  he  would  admit  to  himself.  He  felt  sharp  pains  in  his 
hand.  He  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  loosened  the  bandage. 
The  pent-in  blood  shot  out  again  and  the  hand  seemed  swollen 
near  the  wound.  He  washed  it  carefully  and  held  it  in  the  cool 
water  for  a  time.  When  he  looked  at  it  again  he  could  plainly 
see  the  marks  of  Laurella's  teeth. 

"She  was  right,"  he  said.  "I  was  a  beast  and  don't  deserve 
better  treatment.  To-morrow  I'll  send  the  cloth  back  to 
Giuseppe.  She  won't  have  to  see  me  again."  Then  he  washed 
out  the  cloth  carefully  and  spread  it  to  dry  in  the  sun.  After 
he  had  bound  up  the  wound  as  best  he  could  with  his  left  hand 
and  his  teeth,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  bed  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

The  bright  moon  and  the  pain  in  his  hand  woke  him  out  of 
a  light  sleep.  His  hand  pulsed  with  pain.  He  had  just  jumped 
up  to  cool  it  in  water  when  he  heard  a  noise  at  his  door.  "Who 
is  there?"  he  called,  and  opened  the  door.  Laurella  stood  before 
him.  Without  a  greeting  she  stepped  in.  She  threw  off  the 
covering  she  had  wound  about  her  head  and  breathed  deeply. 

"You  came  to  get  your  cloth,"  he  said.  "You  could  have 
spared  yourself  the  trouble.  I  was  going  to  ask  Giuseppe 
to  bring  it  to  you  in  the  morning." 

"I  did  not  come  for  the  cloth,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  I 
have  been  on  the  mountain  to  get  you  some  herbs  to  stop 
the  bleeding.  Here  — "  and  she  lifted  the  cover  of  the 
basket. 

"Too  much  trouble,"  he  said,  but  without  bitterness.  "Too 
much  trouble.  It's  better  now,  much  better.  And  if  it  were 
worse,  I  should  deserve  it.  What  do  you  want  here  at  this 
time  of  night.     What   if   somebody   should   meet   you   here? 


PAUL  HEYSE  73 

They  do  not  know  what  they  are  talking  about,  but  you  know 
how  they  gossip." 

"They  don't  worry  me,"  she  said  fiercely.  "I  want  to 
see  the  wound  and  put  some  herbs  on  it.  You  can't  do  that 
with  your  left  hand." 

"I  tell  you  it  isn't  necessary." 

"Let  me  see  it  and  I'll  believe  you." 

Without  another  word  she  took  the  hand  which  could  not 
protect  itself  and  unbound  the  cloth.  When  she  saw  the 
swelling  she  started  and  cried,  "  Jesu  —  Maria!" 

"It's  a  bit  swollen,"  he  said.  "That  will  go  away  in  a  day 
and  a  night." 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  won't  be  able  to  go  on  the  sea 
for  a  week." 

"I  believe  I'll  be  out  day  after  to-morrow.  But  what's  the 
difference?" 

In  the  meantime  she  had  fetched  the  basin  and  washed  the 
wound  again  while  he  submitted  like  a  child.  She  laid  the 
healing  leaves  of  the  herb  upon  it,  and  they  relieved  the  burn- 
ing at  once.  Then  she  bound  up  the  hand  with  a  piece  of  linen 
she  had  brought. 

When  it  was  done  he  said,  "Thank  you.  And  listen — if 
you  want  to  do  me  another  favor,  forgive  me  for  letting  such 
foolishness  come  into  my  head  to-day.  Forget  everything  I 
have  said  and  done.  I  don't  know  myself  how  it  happened. 
You  never  gave  me  occasion  for  it.  You  certainly  didn't. 
You  shall  never  hear  anything  from  me  again  that  will  offend 
you." 

"But  I  should  ask  your  pardon,"  she  interrupted.  "I  should 
have  acted  differently  and  better,  and  not  exasperated  you  by 
my  sullenness.     And  now  the  wound." 

"It  was  self-defense  and  high  time  that  I  got  control  of  my- 
self. And,  as  I  said,  it's  nothing.  Don't  talk  of  forgiving. 
You  did  me  good  and  I  thank  you  for  it.     So  now  go  back  to 


74  L'ARRABBIATA 

your  bed.  And  here,  here  is  your  cloth.  You  can  take  it 
along." 

He  handed  it  to  her  but  she  stood  still  and  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  herself.  Finally  she  said:  "You  lost  your 
coat  for  my  sake,  and  I  know  that  it  held  the  money  from  your 
oranges.  That  just  occurred  to  me  on  the  way  over.  I  cannot 
give  it  back  to  you  for  we  have  nothing,  and  if  we  did  have, 
it  would  belong  to  mother.  But  here  is  a  silver  cross  that  the 
painter  put  on  the  table  the  last  time  he  came  to  see  us.  I 
haven't  looked  at  it  since  then  and  I  do  not  want  to  keep  it 
in  the  box  any  longer..  If  you  sell  it  —  my  mother  said  it  was 
probably  worth  a  couple  of  piasters  —  your  loss  would  be  made 
up.  What  would  still  be  lacking,  I  could  get  with  my  spinning 
at  night,  when  mother  is  sleeping." 

"I  will  take  nothing,"  he  said  shortly,  and  he  pushed  back 
the  bright  cross  that  she  had  taken  from  her  pocket. 

"You  must  accept  it,"  she  said.  "Who  knows  how  long  you 
will  be  unable  to  earn  anything  with  that  hand  of  yours.  Here 
it  is  and  I  never  want  to  see  it  again  with  my  eyes." 

"Throw  it  in  the  ocean,  then." 

"It  isn't  a  gift  I'm  giving  you.  It's  no  more  than  your  right 
that's  due  you." 

"Right?  I  have  no  right  to  anything  from  you.  If  I  should 
ever  meet  you  again,  do  me  the  honor  of  not  looking  at  me,  so 
that  I  shall  not  think  you  are  trying  to  remind  me  of  what  I 
owe  you.     And  now,  goodnight,  and  let  it  be  the  last." 

He  put  the  cloth  in  the  basket  and  the  cross  on  the  top  and 
closed  the  cover.  When  he  looked  up,  her  face  frightened 
him.  Great  heavy  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  did 
not  brush  them  away. 

"Maria  Santissima!"  he  cried.  "Are  you  sick?  You're 
trembling  from  head  to  foot." 

"It's  nothing;  I'll  go  home,"  and  she  staggered  toward  the 
door.    Then  her  sobs  overcame  her  and  she  leaned  her  head 


PAUL  HEYSE  75 

against  the  door-post  and  wept  loudly  and  passionately.  And 
before  he  could  help  her,  she  turned  suddenly  and  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck. 

"I  can't  stand  it,"  she  cried,  and  held  him  to  her  as  a  dying 
man  clings  to  life.  "I  can't  stand  it  —  to  have  you  say  nice 
things  to  me  and  send  me  away  with  all  the  guilt  on  my  con- 
science. Beat  me,  kick  me,  curse  me,  or,  if  it  is  true  that  you 
love,  now,  after  all  the  wrong  I've  done  you,  here,  take  me 
and  keep  me,  and  do  what  you  want  with  me.  Don't  send 
me  away  from  you  like  this." 

More  and  more  passionate  sobs  interrupted  her. 

For  awhile  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  silently.  At  last  he 
cried,  "Do  I  still  love  you?  .  .  .  Dear  Mother  of  God,  do 
you  think  that  all  my  heart's  blood  poured  out  of  that  little 
wound!  Don't  you  feel  it  pounding  in  my  breast  as  though  it 
wanted  to  come  out  to  you?  But  if  you  say  this  only  to  tempt 
me,  or  because  you  sympathize  with  me,  go,  and  I'll  forget 
that  too.  You  shall  not  think  you  owe  it  to  me  because  you 
know  I've  suffered  for  you." 

"No,"  she  said  firmly.  She  raised  her  wet  eyes  from  his 
shoulder  and  looked  passionately  into  his  face.  "I  do  love 
you;  and  if  I  could  only  tell  you  how  long  I  have  feared  it  and 
fought  against  it  !  .  .  .  But  now  I'll  be  different, .  because 
I  can't  stand  it  not  to  look  at  you  when  you  pass  in  the  street. 
And  now  I'll  kiss  you  too,  so  that  if  you  should  ever  doubt  again 
you  can  say  to  yourself,  'Laurella  has  kissed  me,  and  she  kisses 
no  man  except  him  whom  she  wants  for  her  husband!'  " 

She  kissed  him  three  times,  and  then  she  freed  herself  from 
his  arms  and  said,  " Good  night,  beloved!  Go  to  sleep  now  and 
heal  your  hand.  Don't  come  with  me,  for  I'm  afraid  of  nobody 
—  but  you." 

With  this  she  slipped  through  the  door  and  disappeared  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall.  For  a  long  time  he  looked  through 
the  window  out  on  the  sea  where  all  the  stars  seemed  to  dance. 


76  L'ARRABBIATA 

When  the  little  Padre  Curato  came  from  the  confessional 
where  Laurella  had  been  kneeling  for  a  long  time,  he  smiled  to 
himself.  "Who  would  have  believed,"  he  thought,  "that  God 
would  so  soon  take  pity  on  this  wayward  heart.  And  I  re- 
proached myself  for  not  having  threatened  any  more  forcibly 
the  demon  pride.  Our  eyes  are  too  short-sighted  to  see  the 
ways  of  Heaven.  God  bless  them  and  may  I  live  to  have 
Laurella's  oldest  son  row  me  across  the  ocean  in  his  father's 
place!    Well,   well,    well, — l'Arrabbiata!" 


V.  THE   CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

[/The  essence  of  the  plot  in  this  story  and  the  following  is  identical.  In  Poe's 
tale  the  incident  is  presented  barely.  Motivation  and  depiction  of  character 
are  slighted  in  order  to  make  the  mere  horror  of  the  central  incident  stand 
forth  nakedly.  All  of  the  masterly  devices  which  were  at  the  author's  command 
have  been  used  to  heighten  this  melodramatic  effect.  The  incident  in  Balzac's 
story  is  almost  meticulously  explained  in  terms  of  motive,  antecedent  action,  and 
character,  which  are  carefully  placed  in  setting  and  attendant  circumstance.  The 
difference  in  artistic  effect  thus  made  will  be  found  to  be  striking.  In  fact,  despite 
the  similarity  in  mere  plot,  La  Grande  Breteche  arouses  an  entirely  new  narrative 
interest.] 

The  thousand  injuries  of  Fortunato  I  had  borne  as  I  best 
could,  but  when  he  ventured  upon  insult,  I  vowed  revenge. 
You,  who  so  well  know  the  nature  of  my  soul,  will  not  suppose, 
however,  that  I  gave  utterance  to  a  threat.  At  length  I  would 
be  avenged;  this  was  a  point  definitely  settled  —  but  the  very 
definiteness  with  which  it  was  resolved  precluded  the  idea  of 
risk.  I  must  not  only  punish,  but  punish  with  impunity. 
A  wrong  is  unredressed  when  retribution  overtakes  its  redresser. 
It  is  equally  unredressed  when  the  avenger  fails  to  make  himself 
felt  as  such  to  him  who  has  done  the  wrong. 

It  must  be  understood  that  neither  by  word  nor  deed  had  I 
given  Fortunato  cause  to  doubt  my  good  will.  I  continued,  as 
was  my  wont,  to  smile  in  his  face,  and  he  did  not  perceive  that 
my  smile  now  was  at  the  thought  of  his  immolation. 

He  had  a  weak  point  —  this  Fortunato  —  although  in  other 
regards  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected  and  even  feared.  He 
prided  himself  on  his  connoisseurship  in  wine.  Few  Italians 
have  the  true  virtuoso  spirit.  For  the  most  part  their  enthu- 
siasm is  adopted  to  suit  the  time  and  opportunity  —  to  practice 
imposture   upon   the   British   and   Austrian   millionaires.    In 


78  THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 

painting  and  gemmary,  Fortunato,  like  his  countrymen,  was 
a  quack,  —  but  in  the  matter  of  old  wines  he  was  sincere.  In 
this  respect  I  did  not  differ  from  him  materially:  I  was  skillful 
in  the  Italian  vintages  myself,  and  bought  largely  whenever 
I  could. 

It  was  about  dusk,  one  evening  during  the  supreme  madness 
of  the  carnival  season,  that  I  encountered  my  friend.  He 
accosted  me  with  excessive  warmth,  for  he  had  been  drinking 
much.  The  man  wore  motley.  He  had  on  a  tight-fitting  party- 
striped  dress,  and  his  head  was  surmounted  by  the  conical 
cap  and  bells.  I  was  so  pleased  to  see  him  that  I  thought  I 
should  never  have  done  wringing  his  hand. 

I  said  to  him:  "My  dear  Fortunato,  you  are  luckily  met. 
How  remarkably  well  you  are  looking  to-day!  But  I  have 
received  a  pipe  of  what  passes  for  Amontillado,  and  I  have  my 
doubts." 

"How?"  said  he,  "Amontillado?  A  pipe?  Impossible! 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  carnival!" 

"I  have  my  doubts,"  I  replied;  "and  I  was  silly  enough  to 
pay  the  full  Amontillado  price  without  consulting  you  in  the 
matter.  You  were  not  to  be  found,  and  I  was  fearful  of  losing 
a  bargain." 

"Amontillado!" 

"I  have  my  doubts." 

"Amontillado!" 

"And  I  must  satisfy  them." 

"Amontillado!" 

"As  you  are  engaged,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Luchesi.  If  any  one 
has  a  critical  turn,  it  is  he.     He  will  tell  me " 

"Luchesi  cannot  tell  Amontillado  from  Sherry." 

"And  yet  some  fools  will  have  it  that  his  taste  is  a  match 
for  your  own." 

"  Come,  let  us  go." 

"Whither?" 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  70 

"To  your  vaults." 

"My  friend,  no;  I  will  not  impose  upon  your  good  nature. 
I  perceive  you  have  an  engagement.     Luchesi " 

"I  have  no  engagement  —  come." 

"My  friend,  no.  It  is  not  the  engagement,  but  the  severe 
cold  with  which  I  perceive  you  are  afflicted.  The  vaults  are 
insufferably  damp.     They  are  incrusted  with  nitre." 

"Let  us  go,  nevertheless.  The  cold  is  merely  nothing. 
Amontillado!  You  have  been  imposed  upon.  And  as  for 
Luchesi,  he  cannot  distinguish  Sherry  from  Amontillado." 

Thus  speaking,  Fortunato  possessed  himself  of  my  arm. 
Putting  on  a  mask  of  black  silk,  and  drawing  a  roquelaure 
closely  about  my  person,  I  suffered  him  to  hurry  me  to  my 
palazzo. 

There  were  no  attendants  at  home;  they  had  absconded  to 
make  merry  in  honor  of  the  time.  I  had  told  them  that  I  should 
not  return  until  the  morning,  and  had  given  them  explicit 
orders  not  to  stir  from  the  house.  These  orders  were  sufficient, 
I  well  knew,  to  insure  their  immediate  disappearance,  one  and 
all,  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned. 

I  took  from  their  sconces  two  flambeaux,  and  giving  one  to 
Fortunato,  bowed  him  through  several  suites  of  rooms  to  the 
archway  that  led  into  the  vaults.  I  passed  down  a  long  and 
winding  staircase,  requesting  him  to  be  cautious  as  he  followed. 
We  came  at  length  to  the  foot  of  the  descent,  and  stood  together 
on  the  damp  ground  of  the  catacombs  of  the  Montresors. 

The  gait  of  my  friend  was  unsteady,  and  the  bells  upon  his 
cap  jingled  as  he  strode. 

"The  pipe,"  said  he. 

"It  is  farther  on,"  said  I;  "but  observe  the  white  webwork 
which  gleams  from  these  cavern  walls." 

He  turned  towards  me,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  two 
filmy  orbs  that  distilled  the  rheum  of  intoxication. 

"Nitre?"  he  asked  at  length. 


80  THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 

"Nitre,"  I  replied.     "How  long  have  you  had  that  cough?" 

"Ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh! 
—  ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh!" 

My  poor  friend  found  it  impossible  to  reply  for  many  minutes. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Come,"  I  said,  with  decision,  "we  will  go  back;  your  health 
is  precious.  You  are  rich,  respected,  admired,  beloved;  you 
are  happy,  as  once  I  was.  You  are  a  man  to  be  missed.  For 
me  it  is  no  matter.  We  will  go  back;  you  will  be  ill,  and  I 
cannot  be  responsible.     Besides,  there  is  Luchesi  — 

"Enough,"  he  said;  "the  cough  is  a  mere  nothing;  it  will 
not  kill  me.     I  shall  not  die  of  a  cough." 

"True  —  true,"  I  replied;  "and,  indeed,  I  had  no  intention 
of  alarming  you  unnecessarily  —  but  you  should  use  all  proper 
caution.  A  draught  of  this  Medoc  will  defend  us  from  the 
damps." 

Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which  I  drew  from  a 
long  row  of  its  fellows  that  lay  upon  the  mold. 

"Drink,"  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine. 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused  and  nodded  to 
me  familiarly,  while  his  bells  jingled. 

"I  drink,"  he  said,  "to  the  buried  that  repose  around  us." 

"And  I  to  your  long  life." 

He  again  took  my  arm,  and  we  proceeded. 

"These  vaults,"  he  said,  "are  extensive." 

"The  Montresors,"  I  replied,  "were  a  great  and  numerous 
family." 

"I  forget  your  arms." 

"A  huge  human  foot  d'or,  in  a  field  azure;  the  foot  crushes 
a  serpent  rampant,  whose  fangs  are  embedded  in  the  heel." 

"And  the  motto?" 

"Nemo  me  impune  lacessit." 

"Good!"  he  said. 

The  wine  sparkled  in  his  eyes  and  the  bells  jingled.     My  own 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  81 

fancy  grew  warm  with  the  Medoc.  *We  had  passed  through 
walls  of  piled  bones,  with  casks  and  puncheons  intermingling, 
into  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  catacombs.  I  paused  again, 
and  this  time  I  made  bold  to  seize  Fortunato  by  an  arm  above 
the  elbow. 

"The  nitre!"  I  said;  "see,  it  increases.  It  hangs  like  moss 
upon  the  vaults.  We  are  below  the  river's  bed.  The  drops  of 
moisture  trickle  among  the  bones.  Come,  we  will  go  back  ere 
it  is  too  late.     Your  cough " 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said;  "let  us  go  on.  But  first,  another 
draught  of  the  Medoc." 

I  broke  and  reached  him  a  flagon  of  De  Grave.  He  emptied 
it  at  a  breath.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce  light.  He  laughed, 
and  threw  the  bottle  upward  with  a  gesticulation  I  did  not 
understand. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  repeated  the  movement  — 
a  grotesque  one. 

"You  do  not  comprehend?"  he  said. 

"Not  I,"  I  replied. 

"Then  you  are  out  of  the  brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"You  are  not  of  the  masons." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  "yes,  yes." 

"You?     Impossible!     A  mason?" 

"A  mason,"  I  replied. 

"A  sign,"  he  said. 

"It  is  this,"  I  answered,  producing  a  trowel  from  beneath 
the  folds  of  my  roquelaure. 

"You  jest,"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  a  few  paces.  "But  let  us 
proceed  to  the  Amontillado." 

"Be  it  so,"  I  said  replacing  the  tool  beneath  the  cloak,  and 
again  offering  him  my  arm.  He  leaned  upon  it  heavily.  We 
continued  our  route  in  search  of  the  Amontillado.  We  passed 
through  a  range  of  low  arches,  descended,  passed  on,  and, 


8a  THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 

descending  again,  arrived  at  a  deep  crypt,  in  which  the  foulness 
of  the  air  caused  our  flambeaux  rather  to  glow  than  flame. 

At  the  most  remote  end  of  the  crypt  there  appeared  another 
less  spacious.  Its  walls  had  been  lined  with  human  remains, 
piled  to  the  vault  overhead,  in  the  fashion  of  the  great  cata- 
combs of  Paris.  Three  sides  of  this  interior  crypt  were  still 
ornamented  in  this  manner.  From  the  fourth  the  bones  had 
been  thrown  down,  and  lay  promiscuously  upon  the  earth, 
forming  at  one  point  a  mound  of  some  size.  Within  the  wall  thus 
exposed  by  the  displacing  of  the  bones  we  perceived  a  still 
interior  recess,  in  depth  about  four  feet,  in  width  three,  in  height 
six  or  seven.  It  seemed  to  have  been  constructed  for  no  especial 
use  within  itself,  but  formed  merely  the  interval  between  two 
of  the  colossal  supports  of  the  roof  of  the  catacombs,  and  was 
backed  by  one  of  their  circumscribing  walls  of  solid  granite. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Fortunato,  uplifting  his  dull  torch,  en- 
deavored to  pry  into  the  depth  of  the  recess.  Its  termination 
the  feeble  light  did  not  enable  us  to  see. 

" Proceed,"  I  said;  "herein  is  the  Amontillado.  As  for 
Luchesi " 

"He  is  an  ignoramus,"  interrupted  my  friend,  as  he  stepped 
unsteadily  forward,  while  I  followed  immediately  at  his  heels. 
In  an  instant  he  had  reached  the  extremity  of  the  niche,  and 
finding  his  progress  arrested  by  the  rock,  stood  stupidly  be- 
wildered. A  moment  more,  and  I  had  fettered  him  to  the 
granite.  In  its  surface  were  two  iron  staples,  distant  from 
each  other  about  two  feet,  horizontally.  From  one  of  these 
depended  a  short  chain,  from  the  other  a  padlock.  Throwing 
the  links  about  his  waist,  it  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  seconds 
to  secure  it.  He  was  too  much  astounded  to  resist.  With- 
drawing the  key,  I  stepped  back  from  the  recess. 

"Pass  your  hand,"  I  said,  "over  the  wall;  you  cannot  help 
feeling  the  nitre.  Indeed  it  is  very  damp.  Once  more  let  me 
implore  you  to  return.     No?    Then  I  must  positively  leave 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  83 

you.  But  I  must  first  render  you  all  the  little  attentions  in  my 
power." 

"The  Amontillado!"  ejaculated  my  friend,  not  yet  recovered 
from  his  astonishment. 

"True,"  I  replied;  "the  Amontillado." 

As  I  said  these  words  I  busied  myself  among  the  pile  of 
bones  of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  Throwing  them  aside,  I 
soon  uncovered  a  quantity  of  building  stone  and  mortar.  With 
these  materials  and  with  the  aid  of  my  trowel,  I  began  vigor- 
ously to  wall  up  the  entrance  of  the  niche. 

I  had  scarcely  laid  the  first  tier  of  the  masonry  when  I  dis- 
covered that  the  intoxication  of  Fortunato  had  in  a  great 
measure  worn  off.  The  earliest  indication  I  had  of  this  was  a 
low  moaning  cry  from  the  depth  of  the  recess.  It  was  not  the 
cry  of  a  drunken  man.  There  was  then  a  long  and  obstinate 
silence.  I  laid  the  second  tier,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth; 
and  then  I  heard  the  furious  vibrations  of  the  chain.  The 
noise  lasted  for  several  minutes,  during  which,  that  I  might 
hearken  to  it  with  the  more  satisfaction,  I  ceased  my  labors  and 
sat  down  upon  the  bones.  When  at  last  the  clanking  subsided, 
I  resumed  the  trowel,  and  finished  without  interruption  the 
fifth,  the  sixth,  and  the  seventh  tier.  The  wall  was  now  nearly 
upon  a  level  with  my  breast.  I  again  paused,  and  holding  the 
flambeaux  over  the  masonwork,  threw  a  few  feeble  rays  upon 
the  figure  within. 

A  succession  of  loud  and  shrill  screams,  bursting  suddenly 
from  the  throat  of  the  chained  form,  seemed  to  thrust  me  vio- 
lently back.  For  a  brief  moment  I  hesitated  —  I  trembled. 
Unsheathing  my  rapier,  I  began  to  grope  with  it  about  the 
recess;  but  the  thought  of  an  instant  reassured  me.  I  placed 
my  hand  upon  the  solid  fabric  of  the  catacombs,  and  felt  satis- 
fied. I  reapproached  the  wall.  I  replied  to  the  yells  of  him  who 
clamored.  I  reechoed  —  I  aided  — ■  I  surpassed  them  in  volume 
and  in  strength.     I  did  this  and  the  clamorer  grew  still. 


84  THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  my  task  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
I  had  completed  the  eighth,  the  ninth,  and  the  tenth  tier.  I 
had  finished  a  portion  of  the  last  and  the  eleventh;  there 
remained  but  a  single  stone  to  be  fitted  and  plastered  in.  I 
struggled  with  its  weight;  I  placed  it  partially  in  its  destined 
position.  But  now  there  came  from  out  the  niche  a  low  laugh 
that  erected  the  hairs  upon  my  head.  It  was  succeeded  by  a 
sad  voice,  which  I  had  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  that  of  the 
noble  Fortunate    The  voice  said:  — 

"Ha!  ha!  ha! — he!  he!  he!  —  a  very  good  jest  indeed  — 
an  excellent  jest.  We  will  have  many  a  rich  laugh  about  it 
at  the  palazzo  —  he!  he!  he!  —  over  our  wine  —  he!  he!  he!" 

"The  Amontillado!"  I  said. 

"He!  he!  he! — he!  he!  he  —  yes,  the  Amontillado.  But 
is  it  not  getting  late?  Will  they  not  be  awaiting  us  at  the 
palazzo  —  the  Lady  Fortunato  and  the  rest?     Let  us  be  gone." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "let  us  be  gone." 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Montr  esorV 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "for  the  love  of  God!" 

But  to  these  words  I  hearkened  in  vain  for  a  reply.  I  grew 
impatient.     I  called  aloud,  — 

"Fortunato!" 

No  answer.     I  called  again,  — 

"Fortunato!" 

No  answer  still.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  remaining 
aperture  and  let  it  fall  within.  There  came  forth  in  return 
only  a  jingling  of  the  bells.  My  heart  grew  sick  —  on  account 
of  the  dampness  of  the  catacombs.  I  hastened  to  make  an  end 
of  my  labor.  I  forced  the  last  stone  into  its  position;  I  plas- 
tered it  up.  Against  the  new  masonry  I  reerected  the  old  ram- 
part of  bones.  For  the  half  of  a  century  no  mortal  has  dis- 
turbed them.     In  pace  requiescat. 


VI.  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  l 

Honore  de  Balzac 

About  a  hundred  yards  from  Vendome,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Loir,  is  an  old  brown  house,  covered  with  very  steep  roofs,  and 
so  completely  isolated  that  there  is  not  so  much  as  an  evil- 
smelling  tannery,  nor  a  shabby  inn  such  as  you  see  at  the  en- 
trance of  all  little  towns,  in  its  neighborhood.  In  front  of  this 
dwelling  is  a  garden  overlooking  the  river,  where  the  box  edg- 
ings, once  carefully  clipped,  which  bordered  the  paths,  now  cross 
them  and  straggle  as  they  fancy.  .  .  .  The  paths,  formerly 
gravelled,  are  full  of  purslain;  so  that,  strictly  speaking,  there 
are  no  paths  at  all.  .  .  .  An  arbor  is  still  standing,  or  rather  the 
remains  of  one,  and  beneath  it  is  a  table  which  time  has  not  yet 
completely  demolished.  From  the  aspect  of  this  garden, 
now  no  more,  the  negative  joys  of  the  peaceful  life  of  the  prov- 
inces can  be  inferred,  just  as  we  infer  the  life  of  some  worthy 
from  the  epitaph  on  his  tomb.  To  complete  the  sad  and  tender 
ideas  which  take  possession  of  the  soul,  a  sundial  on  the  wall 
bears  this  inscription,  Christian  yet  bourgeois,  Ultimam  Cogita. 
The  roofs  are  dilapidated,  the  blinds  always  closed,  the  balconies 
are  filled  with  swallows'  nests,  the  gates  are  locked.  Tall 
herbs  and  grasses  trace  in  green  lines  the  chinks  and  crevices 
of  the  stone  portico;  the  locks  are  rusty.  Sun  and  moon, 
summer  and  winter  and  snow  have  rotted  the  wood,  warped 
the  planks,  and  worn  away  the  paint.  The  gloomy  silence  is 
unbroken  save  by  the  birds,  the  cats,  the  martens,  the  rats, 
the  mice,  all  free  to  scamper  or  fly,  and  to  fight,  and  to  eat  them- 
selves up. 

1  Reprinted  from  Fame  and,  Sorrow  and  Other  Stories  (translated  by  Katharine 
Prescott  Wormeley)   with  the    kind  permission  of    Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


86  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

An  invisible  hand  has  written  the  word  Mystery  everywhere. 
.  .  .  This  empty  and  deserted  house  is  a  profound  enigma, 
whose  solution  is  known  to  none.  It  was  formerly  a  small  fief, 
and  is  called  La  Grande  Breteche.  During  my  stay  at  Ven- 
dome,  where  Desplein  had  sent  me  in  charge  of  a  rich  patient, 
the  sight  of  this  strange  dwelling  was  one  of  my  keenest  pleas- 
ures. It  was  better  than  a  ruin.  A  ruin  possesses  memories 
of  positive  authenticity;  but  this  habitation,  still  standing, 
though  slowly  demolished  by  an  avenging  hand,  contained  some 
secret,  some  mysterious  thought,  —  it  betrayed  at  least  a  strange 
caprice.  More  than  once  of  an  evening  I  jumped  the  hedge, 
now  a  tangle,  which  guarded  the  enclosure.  I  braved  the 
scratches;  I  walked  that  garden  without  a  master,  that  property 
which  was  neither  public  nor  private;  for  hours  I  stayed  there 
contemplating  its  decay.  Not  even  to  obtain  the  history 
which  underlay  (and  to  which  no  doubt  was  due)  this  strange 
spectacle  would  I  have  asked  a  single  question  of  any  gossiping 
countryman.  Standing  there  I  invented  enchanting  tales; 
I  gave  myself  up  to  debauches  of  melancholy  which  fascinated 
me.  Had  I  known  the  reason,  perhaps  a  common  one,  for  this 
strange  desertion,  I  should  have  lost  the  unwritten  poems  with 
which  I  intoxicated  myself.  To  me  this  sanctuary  evoked  the 
most  varied  images  of  human  life  darkened  by  sorrows;  some- 
times it  was  a  cloister  without  the  nuns;  sometimes  a  grave- 
yard and  its  peace,  without  the  dead  who  talk  to  you  in  epitaphs; 
to-day  the  house  of  the  leper,  to-morrow  that  of  the  Atrides; 
but  above  all  was  it  the  provinces  with  their  composed  ideas, 
their  hour-glass  life. 

Often  I  wept  there,  but  I  never  smiled.  More  than  once 
an  involuntary  terror  seized  me,  as  I  heard  above  my  head  the 
muffled  whirr  of  a  ringdove's  wings  hurrying  past.  The  soil  is 
damp;  care  must  be  taken  against  the  lizards,  the  vipers,  the 
frogs,  which  wander  about  with  the  wild  liberty  of  nature; 
above  all,  it  is  well  not  to  fear  cold,  for  there  are  moments 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  87 

when  you  feel  an  icy  mantle  laid  upon  your  shoulders  like  the 
hand  of  the  Commander  on  the  shoulder  of  Don  Juan.  One 
evening  I  shuddered;  the  wind  had  caught  and  turned  a  rusty 
vane.  Its  creak  was  like  a  moan  issuing  from  the  house,  at 
a  moment,  too,  when  I  was  ending  a  gloomy  drama  in  which 
I  explained  to  myself  the  monumental  dolor  of  that  scene. 

That  night  I  returned  to  my  inn,  a  prey  to  gloomy  thoughts. 
After  I  had  supped  the  landlady  entered  my  room  with  a  myster- 
ious air,  and  said  to  me,  "Monsieur,  Monsieur  Regnault  is 
here." 

"Who  is  Monsieur  Regnault?" 

"Is  it  possible  that  Monsieur  doesn't  know  Monsieur  Reg- 
nault?    Ah,  how  funny!"  she  said,  leaving  the  room. 

Suddenly  I  beheld  a  long,  slim  man,  clothed  in  black,  holding 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  who  presented  himself,  much  like  a  ram  about 
to  leap  on  a  rival,  and  showed  me  a  retreating  forehead,  a  small, 
pointed  head  and  a  livid  face,  in  color  somewhat  like  a  glass  of 
dirty  water.  You  would  have  taken  him  for  the  usher  of  a 
minister.  This  unknown  personage  wore  an  old  coat  much 
worn  in  the  folds,  but  he  had  a  diamond  in  the  frill  of  his  shirt, 
and  gold  earrings  in  his  ears. 

"Monsieur,  to  whom  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking?"  I  said. 

He  took  a  chair,  sat  down  before  my  fire,  laid  his  hat  on  my 
table  and  replied,  rubbing  his  hands:  "Ah!  it  is  very  cold. 
Monsieur,  I  am  Monsieur  Regnault." 

I  bowed,  saying  to  myself:    "II  bondo  canil  seek!" 

"I  am,"  he  said,  "the  notary  of  Vendome." 

"Delighted,  monsieur,"  I  replied,  "but  I  am  not  in  the  way 
of  making  my  will,  —  for  reasons,  alas,  too  well-known  to  me." 

"One  moment!"  he  resumed,  raising  his  hand  as  if  to  impose 
silence.  "Permit  me,  monsieur,  permit  me!  I  have  learned  that 
you  sometimes  enter  the  garden  of  La  Grande  Breteche  and 
walk  there  — " 

"Yes,  monsieur." 


88  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

"One  moment!"  he  said,  repeating  his  gesture.  "That 
action  constitutes  a  misdemeanor.  Monsieur,  I  come  in  the 
name  and  as  testamentary  executor  of  the  late  Comtesse  de 
Merret  to  beg  you  to  discontinue  your  visits.  One  moment! 
I  am  not  a  Turk;  I  do  not  wish  to  impute  a  crime  to  you. 
Besides,  it  is  quite  excusable  that  you,  a  stranger,  should  be 
ignorant  of  the  circumstances  which  compel  me  to  let  the 
handsomest  house  in  Vendome  go  to  ruin.  Nevertheless, 
monsieur,  as  you  seem  to  be  a  person  of  education,  you  no 
doubt  know  that  the  law  forbids  trespassers  on  enclosed  property. 
A  hedge  is  the  same  as  a  wall.  But  the  state  in  which  that  house 
is  left  may  well  excuse  your  curiosity.  I  should  be  only  too 
glad  to  leave  you  free  to  go  and  come  as  you  liked  there,  but 
charged  as  I  am  to  execute  the  wishes  of  the  testatrix,  I  have 
the  honor,  monsieur,  to  request  that  you  do  not  again  enter  that 
garden.  I  myself,  monsieur,  have  not,  since  the  reading  of  the 
will,  set  foot  in  that  house,  which,  as  I  have  already  had  the 
honor  to  tell  you,  I  hold  under  the  will  of  Madame  de  Merret. 
We  have  only  taken  account  of  the  number  of  the  doors  and 
windows  so  as  to  assess  the  taxes  which  I  pay  annually  from  the 
funds  left  by  the  late  countess  for  that  purpose.  Ah,  monsieur, 
that  will  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  Vendome!" 

There  the  worthy  man  paused  to  blow  his  nose.  I  respected 
his  loquacity,  understanding  perfectly  that  the  testamentary 
bequest  of  Madame  de  Merret  had  been  the  most  important 
event  of  his  life,  the  head  and  front  of  his  reputation,  his  glory, 
his  Restoration.  So  then,  I  must  bid  adieu  to  my  beautiful 
reveries,  my  romances!  I  was  not  so  rebellious  as  to  deprive 
myself  of  getting  the  truth,  as  it  were  officially,  out  of  the 
man  of  law,  so  I  said,  — 

"Monsieur,  if  it  is  not  indiscreet,  may  I  ask  the  reason  of 
this  singularity?" 

At  these  words  a  look  which  expressed  the  pleasure  of  a  man 
who  rides  a  hobby  passed  over  Monsieur  Regnault's  face.     He 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  89 

pulled  up  his  shirt-collar  with  a  certain  conceit,  took  out  his 
snuff-box,  opened  it,  offered  it  to  me  and,  on  my  refusal,  took 
a  strong  pinch  himself.  He  was  happy.  A  man  who  hasn't 
a  hobby  doesn't  know  how  much  can  be  got  out  of  life.  A 
hobby  is  the  exact  medium  between  a  passion  and  a  mono- 
mania. At  that  moment  I  understood  Sterne's  fine  expression 
to  its  fullest  extent,  and  I  formed  a  complete  idea  of  the  joy 
with  which  my  Uncle  Toby  —  Trim  assisting  —  bestrode  his 
war-horse. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Monsieur  Regnault,  "I  was  formerly  head- 
clerk  to  Maitre  Roguin  in  Paris.  An  excellent  lawyer's  office 
of  which  you  have  doubtless  heard?  No?  And  yet  a  most 
unfortunate  failure  made  it,  I  may  say,  celebrated.  Not  having 
the  means  to  buy  a  practice  in  Paris  at  the  price  to  which  they 
rose  in  1816, 1  came  here  to  Vendome,  where  I  have  relations,  — 
among  them  a  rich  aunt,  who  gave  me  her  daughter  in  marriage." 
Here  he  made  a  slight  pause,  and  then  resumed: 
"Three  months  after  my  appointment  was  ratified  by  Mon- 
seigneur  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  I  was  sent  for  one  evening  just 
as  I  was  going  to  bed  (I  was  not  then  married)  by  Madame  la 
Comtesse  de  Merret,  then  living  in  her  chateau  at  Merret.  Her 
lady's-maid,  an  excellent  girl  who  is  now  serving  in  this  inn, 
was  at  the  door  with  the  countess's  carriage.  Ah!  one  moment! 
I  ought  to  tell  you,  monsieur,  that  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Merret 
had  gone  to  die  in  Paris  about  two  months  before  I  came  here. 
He  died  a  miserable  death  from  excesses  of  all  kinds,  to  which 
he  gave  himself  up.  You  understand?  Well,  the  day  of  his 
departure  Madame  la  Comtesse  left  La  Grande  Breteche, 
and  dismantled  it.  They  do  say  that  she  even  burned  the 
furniture,  and  the  carpets,  and  all  appurtenances  whatsoever 
and  wheresoever  contained  on  the  premises  leased  to  the  said  — 
Ah!  beg  pardon;  what  am  I  saying?  I  thought  I  was  dictating 
a  lease.  Well,  monsieur,  she  burned  everything,  they  say,  in 
the  meadow  at  Merret.     Were  you  ever  at  Merret,  monsieur?" 


go  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

Not  waiting  for  me  to  speak,  he  answered  for  me:  "No. 
Ah!  it  is  a  fine  spot!  For  three  months,  or  thereabouts,"  he 
continued,  nodding  his  head,  "  Monsieur  le  Comte  and  Madame 
la  Comtesse  had  been  living  at  La  Grande  Breteche  in  a  very 
singular  way.  They  admitted  no  one  to  the  house;  madame 
lived  on  the  ground-floor,  and  monsieur  on  the  first  floor.  After 
Madame  la  Comtesse  was  left  alone  she  never  went  to  church. 
Later,  in  her  own  chateau  she  refused  to  see  the  friends  who  came 
to  visit  her.  She  changed  greatly  after  she  left  La  Grande 
Breteche  and  came  to  Merret.  That  dear  woman  (I  say  dear, 
though  I  never  saw  her  but  once,  because  she  gave  me  this 
diamond),  —  that  good  lady  was  very  ill;  no  doubt  she  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  recovery,  for  she  died  without  calling  in 
a  doctor;  in  fact,  some  of  our  ladies  thought  she  was  not  quite 
right  in  her  mind.  Consequently,  monsieur,  my  curiosity 
was  greatly  excited  when  I  learned  that  Madame  de  Merret 
needed  my  services ;  and  I  was  not  the  only  one  deeply  interested 
for  that  very  night,  though  it  was  late,  the  whole  town  knew  I 
had  gone  to  Merret." 

The  good  man  paused  a  moment  to  arrange  his  facts,  and  then 
continued:  "The  lady's  maid  answered  rather  vaguely  the 
questions  which  I  put  to  her  as  we  drove  along;  she  did,  how- 
ever, tell  me  that  her  mistress  received  the  last  sacraments 
that  day  from  the  curate  of  Merret,  and  that  she  was  not  likely 
to  live  through  the  night.  I  reached  the  chateau  about  eleven 
o'clock.  I  went  up  the  grand  staircase.  After  passing  through 
a  number  of  dark  and  lofty  rooms,  horribly  cold  and  damp, 
I  entered  the  state  bedroom  where  Madame  la  Comtesse  was 
lying.  In  consequence  of  the  many  stories  that  were  told  about 
this  lady  (really,  monsieur,  I  should  never  end  if  I  related  all 
of  them)  I  expected  to  find  her  a  fascinating  coquette.  Would 
you  believe  it,  I  could  scarcely  see  her  at  all  in  the  huge  bed  in 
which  she  lay.  It  is  true  that  the  only  light  in  that  vast  room, 
with  friezes  of  the  old  style  powdered  with  dust  enough  to  make 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  91 

you  sneeze  on  merely  looking  at  them,  was  one  Argand  lamp. 
Ah!  but  you  say  you  have  never  been  at  Merret.  Well,  mon- 
sieur, the  bed  was  one  of  those  old-time  beds  with  a  high  tester 
covered  with  flowered  chintz.  A  little  night-table  stood  by  the 
bed,  and  on  it  I  noticed  a  copy  of  the  Imitation  of  Christ. 

"Allow  me  a  parenthesis,"  he  said,  interrupting  himself. 
"I  bought  that  book  subsequently,  also  the  lamp,  and  pre- 
sented them  to  my  wife.  In  the  room  was  a  large  sofa  for  the 
woman  who  was  taking  care  of  Madame  de  Merret,  and  two 
chairs.  That  was  all.  No  fire.  The  whole  would  not  have 
made  ten  lines  of  an  inventory.  Ah!  my  dear  monsieur,  could 
you  have  seen  her  as  I  saw  her  then,  in  that  vast  room  hung 
with  brown  tapestry,  you  would  have  imagined  you  were  in 
the  pages  of  a  novel.  It  was  glacial,  —  better  than  that, 
funereal,"  added  the  worthy  man,  raising  his  arm  theatrically 
and  making  a  pause.     Presently  he  resumed: 

"By  dint  of  peering  round  and  coming  close  to  the  bed  I 
at  length  saw  Madame  de  Merret,  thanks  to  the  lamps  which 
happened  to  shine  on  the  pillows.  Her  face  was  as  yellow  as 
wax,  and  looked  like  two  hands  joined  together.  Madame 
la  Comtesse  wore  a  lace  cap,  which,  however,  allowed  me  to  see 
her  fine  hair,  white  as  snow.  She  was  sitting  up  in  the  bed, 
but  apparently  did  so  with  difficulty.  Her  large  black  eyes, 
sunken  no  doubt  with  fever,  and  almost  lifeless,  hardly  moved 
beneath  the  bones  where  the  eyebrows  usually  grow.  Her 
forehead  was  damp.  Her  fleshless  hands  were  like  bones  cov- 
ered with  thin  skin;  the  veins  and  muscles  could  all  be  seen. 
She  must  once  have  been  very  handsome,  but  now  I  was  seized 
with  —  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  feeling,  as  I  looked  at  her. 
Those  who  buried  her  said  afterwards  that  no  living  creature 
had  ever  been  as  wasted  as  she  without  dying.  Well,  it  was 
awful  to  see.  Some  mortal  disease  had  eaten  up  that  woman 
till  there  was  nothing  left  of  her  but  a  phantom.  Her  lips, 
of  a  pale  violet,  seemed  not  to  move  when  she  spoke.     Though 


92  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

my  profession  had  familiarized  me  with  such  scenes,  in  bringing 
me  often  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  to  receive  their  last  wishes, 
I  must  say  that  the  tears  and  the  anguish  of  families  and  friends 
which  I  have  witnessed  were  as  nothing  compared  to  this 
solitary  woman  in  that  vast  building.  I  did  not  hear  the  slight- 
est noise,  I  did  not  see  the  movement  which  the  breathing  of 
the  dying  woman  would  naturally  give  to  the  sheet  that  covered 
her;  I  myself  remained  motionless,  looking  at  her  in  a  sort  of 
stupor.  Indeed,  I  fancy  I  am  there  still.  At  last  her  large  eyes 
moved;  she  tried  to  lift  her  right  hand,  which  fell  back  upon  the 
bed;  then  these  words  issued  from  her  lips  like  a  breath,  for  her 
voice  was  no  longer  a  voice: 

" '  I  have  awaited  you  with  impatience.' 

"Her  cheeks  colored.  The  effort  to  speak  was  great.  The 
old  woman  who  was  watching  her  here  rose  and  whispered  in 
my  ear:  'Don't  speak;  Madame  la  Comtesse  is  past  hearing 
the  slightest  sound;  you  would  only  agitate  her.'  I  sat 
down.  A  few  moments  later  Madame  de  Merret  collected  all 
her  remaining  strength  to  move  her  right  arm  and  put  it,  not 
without  great  difficulty,  under  her  bolster.  She  paused  an  in- 
stant; then  she  made  a  last  effort  and  withdrew  her  hand  which 
now  held  a  sealed  paper.  Great  drops  of  sweat  rolled  from 
her  forehead. 

"'I  give  you  my  will,'  she  said.     'Oh,  my  God!    Oh!' 

"That  was  all.  She  seized  a  crucifix  which  lay  on  her  bed, 
pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  died.  The  expression  of  her  fixed 
eyes  still  makes  me  shudder  when  I  think  of  it.  I  brought  away 
the  will.  When  it  was  opened  I  found  that  Madame  de  Merret 
had  appointed  me  her  executor.  She  bequeathed  her  whole 
property  to  the  hospital  of  Vendome,  save  and  excepting  certain 
bequests.  The  following  disposition  was  made  of  La  Grande 
Breteche.  I  was  directed  to  leave  it  in  the  state  in  which  it 
was  at  the  time  of  her  death  for  a  period  of  fifty  years  from  the 
date  of  her  decease;  I  was  to  forbid  all  access  to  it,  by  any  and 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  93 

every  one,  no  matter  who;  to  make  no  repairs,  and  to  put  by 
from  her  estate  a  yearly  sum  to  pay  watchers,  if  they  were 
necessary,  to  insure  the  faithful  execution  of  these  intentions. 
At  the  expiration  of  that  time  the  estate  was,  if  the  testatrix's 
will  had  been  carried  out  in  all  particulars,  to  belong  to  my 
heirs  (because,  as  monsieur  is  doubtless  well  aware,  notaries 
are  forbidden  by  law  to  receive  legacies);  if  otherwise,  then 
La  Grande  Breteche  was  to  go  to  whoever  might  establish  a 
right  to  it,  but  on  condition  of  fulfilling  certain  orders  con- 
tained in  a  codicil  annexed  to  the  will  and  not  to  be  opened  until 
the  expiration  of  the  fifty  years.  The  will  has  never  been 
attacked,  consequently  —  " 

Here  the  oblong  notary,  without  finishing  his  sentence, 
looked  at  me  triumphantly.  I  made  him  perfectly  happy 
with  a  few  compliments. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  in  conclusion,  "you  have  so  deeply 
impressed  that  scene  upon  me  that  I  seem  to  see  the  dying  wo- 
man, whiter  than  the  sheets;  those  glittering  eyes  horrify  me; 
I  shall  dream  of  her  all  night.  But  you  must  have  formed  some 
conjectures  as  to  the  motive  of  that  extraordinary  will." 

"Monsieur,"  he  replied,  with  comical  reserve,  "I  never 
permit  myself  to  judge  of  the  motives  of  those  who  honor  me 
with  the  gift  of  a  diamond." 

However,  I  managed  to  unloose  the  tongue  of  the  scrupulous 
notary  so  far  that  he  told  me,  not  without  long  digressions, 
certain  opinions  on  the  matter  emanating  from  the  wise-heads 
of  both  sexes  whose  judgments  made  the  social  law  of  Vendome. 
But  these  opinions  and  observations  were  so  contradictory, 
diffuse,  that  I  well-nigh  went  to  sleep  in  spite  of  the  interest 
I  felt  in  this  authentic  story.  The  heavy  manner  and  mono- 
tonous accent  of  the  notary,  who  was  no  doubt  in  the  habit  of 
listening  to  himself  and  making  his  clients  and  compatriots 
listen  to  him,  triumphed  over  my  curiosity.  Happily,  he  did 
at  last  go  away. 


94  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

"Ha,  ha!  monsieur,"  he  said  to  me  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
"many  persons  would  like  to  live  their  forty-five  years  longer, 
but,  one  moment!" —  here  he  laid  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand 
on  his  nose  as  if  he  meant  to  say,  Now  pay  attention  to  this!  — 
"in  order  to  do  that,  to  do  that,  they  ought  to  skip  the  sixties." 

I  shut  my  door,  the  notary's  jest,  which  he  thought  very  witty, 
having  drawn  me  from  my  apathy;  then  I  sat  down  in  my 
armchair  and  put  both  feet  on  the  andirons.  I  was  plunged  in 
a  romance  a  la  Radcliffe,  based  on  the  notarial  disclosures  of 
Monsieur  Regnault,  when  my  door,  softly  opened  by  the  hand 
of  a  woman,  turned  noiselessly  on  its  hinges. 

I  saw  my  landlady,  a  jovial,  stout  woman,  with  a  fine,  good- 
humored  face,  who  had  missed  her  true  surroundings;  she  was 
from  Flanders,  and  might  have  stepped  out  of  a  picture  by 
Teniers. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "Monsieur  Regnault  has  no 
doubt  recited  to  you  his  famous  tale  of  La  Grande  Breteche?" 

"Yes,  Madame  Lepas." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

I  repeated  in  a  few  words  the  dark  and  chilling  story  of 
Madame  de  Merret  as  imparted  to  me  by  the  notary.  At  each 
sentence  my  landlady  ran  out  her  chin  and  looked  at  me  with  the 
perspicacity  of  an  innkeeper,  which  combines  the  instinct  of 
a  policeman,  the  astuteness  of  a  spy,  and  the  cunning  of  a  shop- 
keeper. 

"My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  added,  in  conclusion,  "you 
evidently  know  more  than  that.  If  not,  why  did  you  come 
up  here  to  me?" 

"On  the  word,  now,  of  an  honest  woman,  just  as  true  as  my 
name  is  Lepas  —  " 

"  Don't  swear,  for  your  eyes  are  full  of  the  secret.  You  knew 
Monsieur  de  Merret.     What  sort  of  man  was  he?" 

"Goodness!  Monsieur  de  Merret?  well,  you  see,  he  was  a 
handsome  man,  so  tall  you  never  could  see  the  top  of  him,  — 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  95 

a  very  worthy  gentleman  from  Picardy,  who  had,  as  you  may 
say,  a  temper  of  his  own;  and  he  knew  it.  He  paid  everyone 
in  cash  so  as  to  have  no  quarrels.  But,  I  tell  you,  he  could  be 
quick.    Our  ladies  thought  him  very  pleasant." 

"Because  of  his  temper?"  I  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  she  replied.  "You  know,  monsieur,  a  man  must 
have  something  to  the  fore,  as  they  say,  to  marry  a  lady  like 
Madame  de  Merret,  who,  without  disparaging  others,  was 
the  handsomest  and  the  richest  woman  in  Vendome.  She  had 
an  income  of  nearly  twenty  thousand  francs.  All  the  town  was 
at  the  wedding.  The  bride  was  so  dainty  and  captivating,  a 
real  little  jewel  of  a  woman.  Ah!  they  were  a  fine  couple  in 
those  days!" 

"Was  their  home  a  happy  one?" 

"Hum,  hum!  yes  and  no,  so  far  as  anyone  can  say;  for  you 
know  well  enough  that  the  like  of  us  don't  live  hand  and  glove 
with  the  like  of  them.  Madame  de  Merret  was  a  good  woman 
and  very  charming,  who  no  doubt  had  to  bear  a  good  deal 
from  her  husband's  temper;  we  all  liked  her  though  she  was 
rather  haughty.  Bah!  that  was  her  bringing  up,  and  she  was 
born  so.     When  people  are  noble  —  don't  you  see?" 

"Yes,  but  there  must  have  been  some  terrible  catastrophe, 
for  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  to  separate  violently." 

"I  never  said  there  was  a  catastrophe,  monsieur;  I  know 
nothing  about  it." 

"Very  good;   now  I  am  certain  that  you  know  all." 

"Well,  monsieur,  I'll  tell  you  all  I  do  know.  When  I  saw 
Monsieur  Regnault  coming  after  you  I  knew  he  would  tell  you 
about  Madame  de  Merret  and  La  Grande  Breteche;  and  that 
gave  me  the  idea  of  consulting  monsieur,  who  seems  to  be  a 
gentleman  of  good  sense,  incapable  of  betraying  a  poor  woman 
like  me,  who  has  never  done  harm  to  anyone,  but  who  is,  some- 
how, troubled  in  her  conscience.  I  have  never  dared  to  say  a 
word  to  the  people  about  here,  for  they  are  all  gossips,  with 


o6  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

tongues  like  steel  blades.  And  there's  never  been  a  traveller 
who  has  stayed  as  long  as  you  have,  monsieur,  to  whom  I  could 
tell  all  about  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  —  " 

"My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  replied,  trying  to  stop  the 
flow  of  words,  "if  your  confidence  is  of  a  nature  to  compromise 
me,  I  wouldn't  hear  it  for  worlds." 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,"  she  said,  interrupting  me.  "You'll 
see  —  " 

This  haste  to  tell  made  me  quite  certain  I  was  not  the  first 
to  whom  my  good  landlady  had  communicated  the  secret  of 
which  I  was  to  be  the  sole  repository,  so  I  listened. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "when  the  Emperor  sent  the  Spanish 
and  other  prisoners  of  war  to  Vendome  I  lodged  one  of  them 
(at  the  cost  of  the  government) ,  —  a  young  Spaniard  on  parole. 
But  in  spite  of  his  parole  he  had  to  report  every  day  to  the  sub- 
prefect.  He  was  a  grandee  of  Spain,  with  a  name  that  ended 
in  os  and  in  dia,  like  all  Spaniards  —  Bagos  de  Feredia.  I 
wrote  his  name  on  the  register,  and  you  can  see  it  if  you  like. 
Oh,  he  was  a  handsome  young  fellow  for  a  Spaniard,  who,  they 
tell  me,  are  all  ugly.  He  wasn't  more  than  five  feet  two  or  three 
inches,  but  he  was  well  made.  He  had  pretty  little  hands 
which  he  took  care  of  —  ah,  you  should  just  have  seen  him! 
He  had  as  many  brushes  for  those  hands  as  a  woman  has  for 
her  head.  He  had  fine  black  hair,  a  fiery  eye,  a  rather  copper- 
colored  skin,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  look  at  all  the  same.  He 
wore  the  finest  linen  I  ever  saw  on  anyone,  and  I  have  lodged 
princesses,  and,  among  others,  General  Bertrand,  the  Due  and 
Duchesse  d'Abrantes,  Monsieur  Decazes  and  the  King  of  Spain. 
He  didn't  eat  much;  but  he  had  such  polite  manners  and  was 
always  so  amiable  that  I  couldn't  find  fault  with  him.  Oh! 
I  did  really  love  him,  though  he  never  said  four  words  a  day  to 
me;  if  anyone  spoke  to  him,  he  never  answered,  —  that's 
an  oddity  those  grandees  have,  a  sort  of  mania,  so  I'm  told. 
He  read  his  breviary  like  a  priest,  and  he  went  to  mass  and  to 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  97 

all  the  services  regularly.  Where  do  you  think  he  sat?  close  to 
the  chapel  of  Madame  de  Merret.  But  as  he  took  that  place 
the  first  time  he  went  to  church  nobody  attached  any  importance 
to  the  fact,  though  it  was  remembered  later.  Besides,  he  never 
took  his  eyes  off  his  prayer-book,  poor  young  man!" 

My  jovial  landlady  paused  a  moment,  overcome  with  her 
recollections;  then  she  continued  her  tale: 

"From  that  time  on,  monsieur,  he  used  to  walk  up  the  moun- 
tain every  evening  to  the  ruins  of  the  castle.  It  was  his  only 
amusement,  poor  man!  and  I  dare  say  it  recalled  his  own  coun- 
try; they  say  Spain  is  all  mountains.  From  the  first  he  was 
always  late  at  night  in  coming  in.  I  used  to  be  uneasy  at  never 
seeing  him  before  the  stroke  of  midnight;  but  we  got  accustomed 
to  his  ways  and  gave  him  a  key  to  the  door,  so  that  we  didn't 
have  to  sit  up.  It  so  happened  that  one  of  our  grooms  told  us 
that  one  evening  when  he  went  to  bathe  his  horses  he  thought 
he  saw  the  grandee  in  the  distance,  swimming  in  the  river  like 
a  fish.  When  he  came  in  I  told  him  he  had  better  take  care 
not  to  get  entangled  in  the  sedges;  he  seemed  annoyed  that  any- 
one had  seen  him  in  the  water.  Well,  monsieur,  one  day,  or 
rather,  one  morning,  we  did  not  find  him  in  his  room;  he  had 
not  come  in.  He  never  returned.  I  looked  about  and  into 
everything,  and  at  last  I  found  a  writing  in  a  table  drawer 
where  he  had  put  away  fifty  of  those  Spanish  gold  coins  called 
'portugaise,'  which  bring  a  hundred  francs  apiece;  there  were 
also  diamonds  worth  ten  thousand  francs  sealed  up  in  a  little 
box.  The  paper  said  that  in  case  he  should  not  return  some 
day,  he  bequeathed  to  us  the  money  and  the  diamonds,  with 
a  request  to  found  masses  of  thanksgiving  to  God  for  his  escape 
and  safety.  In  those  days  my  husband  was  living,  and  he  did 
everything  he  could  to  find  the  young  man.  But,  it  was  the 
queerest  thing!  he  found  only  the  Spaniard's  clothes  under  a 
big  stone  in  a  sort  of  shed  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  on  the  castle 
side,  just  opposite  to  La  Grande  Breteche.     My  husband  went 


98  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

so  early  in  the  morning  that  no  one  saw  him.  He  burned  the 
clothes  after  we  had  read  the  letter,  and  gave  out,  as  Comte 
Feredia  requested,  that  he  had  fled.  The  sub-prefect  sent  the 
whole  gendarmerie  on  his  traces,  but  bless  your  heart!  they 
never  caught  him.  Lepas  thought  the  Spaniard  had  drowned 
himself.  But,  monsieur,  I  never  thought  so.  I  think  he  was 
somehow  mixed  up  in  Madame  de  Merret's  trouble;  and  I'll 
tell  you  why.  Rosalie  has  told  me  that  her  mistress  had  a  cruci- 
fix she  valued  so  much  that  she  was  buried  with  it,  and  it  was 
made  of  ebony  and  silver;  now  when  Monsieur  de  Feredia  first 
came  to  lodge  with  us  he  had  just  such  a  crucifix,  but  I  soon 
missed  it.  Now,  monsieur,  what  do  you  say?  isn't  it  true 
that  I  need  have  no  remorse  about  those  fifteen  thousand  francs? 
are  not  they  rightfully  mine?" 

"  Of  course  they  are.  But  how  is  it  you  have  never  questioned 
Rosalie?"    I  said. 

"Oh,  I  have,  monsieur;  but  I  can  get  nothing  out  of  her. 
That  girl  is  a  stone  wall.  She  knows  something,  but  there  is 
no  making  her  talk,." 

After  a  few  more  remarks,  my  landlady  left  me,  a  prey  to  a 
romantic  curiosity,  to  vague  and  darkling  thoughts,  to  a  religious 
terror  that  was  something  like  the  awe  which  comes  upon  us 
when  we  enter  by  night  a  gloomy  church  and  see  in  the  distance 
beneath  the  arches  a  feeble  light;  a  formless  figure  glides  before 
us,  the  sweep  of  a  robe  —  of  priest  or  woman  —  is  heard ; 
we  shudder.  La  Grande  Breteche,  with  its  tall  grasses,  its 
shuttered  windows,  its  rusty  railings,  its  barred  gates,  its  de- 
serted rooms,  rose  fantastically  and  suddenly  before  me.  I 
tried  to  penetrate  that  mysterious  dwelling  and  seek  the  knot 
of  this  most  solemn  history,  this  drama  which  had  killed  three 
persons. 

Rosalie  became  to  my  eyes  the  most  interesting  person  in 
Vendome.  Examining  her,  I  discovered  the  traces  of  an  ever- 
present  inward  thought.     In  spite  of  the  health  which  bloomed 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  99 

upon  her  dimpled  face,  there  was  in  her  some  element  of  re- 
morse, or  of  hope;  her  attitude  bespoke  a  secret,  like  that  of 
devotees  who  pray  with  ardor,  or  that  of  a  girl  who  has  killed 
her  child  and  forever  after  hears  its  cry.  And  yet  her  postures 
were  naive,  and  even  vulgar;  her  silly  smile  was  surely  not 
criminal;  you  would  have  judged  her  innocent  if  only  by  the 
large  neckerchief  of  blue  and  red  squares  which  covered  her 
vigorous  bust,  clothed,  confined,  and  set  off  by  a  gown  of  purple 
and  white  stripes.  "  No, "  thought  I ;  "  I  will  not  leave  Vendome 
without  knowing  the  history  of  La  Grande  Breteche.  I'll 
even  make  love  to  Rosalie,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary." 

"Rosalie! "  I  said  to  her  one  day. 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?" 

"You  are  not  married,  are  you?" 

She  trembled  slightly. 

"Oh!  when  the  fancy  takes  me  to  be  unhappy  there'll  be  no 
lack  of  men,"  she  said  laughing. 

She  recovered  instantly  from  her  emotion,  whatever  it  was; 
for  all  women,  from  the  great  lady  to  the  chambermaid  of  an 
inn,  have  a  self-possession  of  their  own. 

"You  are  fresh  enough  and  taking  enough  to  please  a  lover," 
I  said,  watching  her.  "But  tell  me,  Rosalie,  why  did  you 
take  a  place  at  an  inn  after  you  left  Madame  de  Merret?  Didn't 
she  leave  you  an  annuity?" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  did.  But,  monsieur,  my  place  is  the  best  in 
all  Vendome." 

This  answer  was  evidently  what  judges  and  lawyers  call 
"dilatory."  Rosalie's  position  in  this  romantic  history  was 
like  that  of  a  square  on  a  checkerboard;  she  was  at  the  very 
centre,  as  it  were,  of  its  truth  and  its  interest;  she  seemed  to 
me  to  be  tied  into  the  knot  of  it.  The  last  chapter  of  the  tale 
was  in  her,  and,  from  the  moment  that  I  realized  this,  Rosalie 
became  to  me  an  object  of  attraction.  By  dint  of  studying 
the  girl  I  came  to  find  in  her,  as  we  do  in  every  woman  whom 


ioo  LA   GRANDE  BRETECHE 

we  make  a  principal  object  of  our  attention,  that  she  had  a  host 
of  good  qualities.  She  was  clean,  and  careful  of  herself,  and 
therefore  handsome.  Some  two  or  three  weeks  after  the 
notary's  visit  I  said  to  her,  suddenly:  "Tell  me  all  you  know 
about  Madame  de  Merret." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of  terror,  "don't  ask  me  that, 
monsieur." 

I  persisted  in  urging  her.  Her  pretty  face  darkened,  her 
bright  color  faded,  her  eyes  lost  their  innocent,  liquid  light. 

"Well!"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "if  you  will  have  it  so,  I  will 
tell  you;  but  keep  the  secret." 

"I'll  keep  it  with  the  faithfulness  of  a  thief,  which  is  the 
most  loyal  to  be  found  anywhere." 

"If  it  is  the  same  to  you,  monsieur,  I'd  rather  you  kept  it 
with  your  own." 

Thereupon,  she  adjusted  her  neckerchief  and  posed  herself 
to  tell  the  tale;  for  it  is  very  certain  that  an  attitude  of  con- 
fidence and  security  is  desirable  in  order  to  make  a  narration. 
The  best  tales  are  told  at  special  hours,  —  like  that  in  which  we 
are  now  at  table.  No  one  ever  told  a  story  well,  standing  or 
fasting. 

If  I  were  to  reproduce  faithfully  poor  Rosalie's  diffuse  elo- 
quence, a  whole  volume  would  scarce  suffice.  But  as  the  event 
of  which  she  now  gave  me  a  hazy  knowledge  falls  into  place 
between  the  facts  revealed  by  the  garrulity  of  the  notary,  and 
that  of  Madame  Lepas,  as  precisely  as  the  mean  terms  of  an 
arithmetical  proposition  lie  between  its  two  extremes,  all  I 
have  to  do  is  to  tell  it  to  you  in  few  words.  I  therefore  give 
a  summary  of  what  I  heard  from  Rosalie. 

The  chamber  which  Madame  de  Merret  occupied  at  La 
Grande  Breteche  was  on  the  ground-floor.  A  small  closet  about 
four  feet  in  depth  was  made  in  the  wall,  and  served  as  a  ward- 
robe. Three  months  before  the  evening  when  the  facts  I  am 
about  to  relate  to  you  happened,  Madame  de  Merret  had  been 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  101 

so  seriously  unwell  that  her  husband  left  her  alone  in  her  room 
and  slept  himself  in  a  chamber  on  the  first  floor.  By  one  of 
those  mere  chances  which  it  is  impossible  to  foresee,  he  returned, 
on  the  evening  in  question,  two  hours  later  than  usual  from  the 
club  where  he  went  habitually  to  read  the  papers  and  talk  politics 
with  the  inhabitants  of  the  town.  His  wife  thought  him  at 
home  and  in  bed  and  asleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France  had 
been  the  subject  of  a  lively  discussion;  the  game  of  billiards 
was  a  heated  one;  he  had  lost  forty  francs,  an  enormous  sum 
for  Vendome,  where  everybody  hoards  his  money,  and  where 
manners  and  customs  are  restrained  within  modest  limits  worthy 
of  all  praise,  —  which  may,  perhaps,  be  the  source  of  a  certain 
true  happiness  which  no  Parisian  cares  anything  at  all  about. 

For  some  time  past  Monsieur  de  Merret  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  asking  Rosalie,  when  he  came  in,  if  his  wife  were  in  bed. 
Being  told,  invariably,  that  she  was,  he  at  once  went  to  his  own 
room  with  the  contentment  that  comes  of  confidence  and 
custom.  This  evening,  on  returning  home,  he  took  it  into  his 
head  to  go  to  Madame  de  Merret's  room  and  tell  her  his  ill- 
luck,  perhaps  to  be  consoled  for  it.  During  dinner  he  had 
noticed  that  his  wife  was  coquettishly  dressed;  and  as  he 
came  from  the  club  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  she  was 
no  longer  ill,  that  her  convalescence  had  made  her  lovelier 
than  ever,  —  a  fact  he  perceived,  as  husbands  are  wont  to 
perceive  things,  too  late. 

Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at  that  moment  was  in  the 
kitchen  watching  a  complicated  game  of  "brisque,"  at  which  the 
cook  and  the  coachman  were  playing,  Monsieur  de  Merret  went 
straight  to  his  wife's  room  by  the  light  of  his  lantern,  which  he 
had  placed  on  the  first  step  of  the  stairway.  His  step,  which 
was  easily  recognized,  resounded  under  the  arches  of  the  corridor. 
Just  as  he  turned  the  handle  of  his  wife's  door  he  fancied  he 
heard  the  door  of  the  closet,  which  I  mentioned  to  you,  shut; 
but  when  he  entered,  Madame  de  Merret  was  alone,  standing 


102  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

before  the  fireplace.  The  husband  thought  to  himself  that 
Rosalie  must  be  in  the  closet;  and  yet  a  suspicion,  which  sounded 
in  his  ears  like  the  ringing  of  bells,  made  him  distrustful.  He 
looked  at  his  wife,  and  fancied  he  saw  something  wild  and 
troubled  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  late  in  coming  home,"  she  said.  That  voice, 
usually  so  pure  and  gracious,  seemed  to  him  slightly  changed. 

Monsieur  de  Merret  made  no  answer,  for  at  that  moment 
RosaUe  entered  the  room.  Her  appearance  was  a  thunderbolt 
to  him.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  arms  crossed, 
going  from  one  window  to  another  with  a  uniform  movement. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  to  trouble  you?"  asked  his  wife, 
timidly,  while  Rosalie  was  undressing  her.     He  made  no  answer. 

"You  can  leave  the  room,"  said  Madame  de  Merret  to  the 
maid.     "I  will  arrange  my  hair  myself." 

She  guessed  some  misfortune  at  the  mere  sight  of  her  husband's 
face,  and  wished  to  be  alone  with  him. 

When  Rosalie  was  gone,  or  supposed  to  be  gone,  for  she  went 
no  further  than  the  corridor,  Monsieur  de  Merret  came  to  his 
wife  and  stood  before  her.     Then  he  said  coldly: 

"Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your  closet." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  calm  air,  and  answered, 
"No,  monsieur." 

That  "no"  agonized  Monsieur  de  Merret,  for  he  did  not 
believe  it.  And  yet  his  wife  had  never  seemed  purer  or  more 
saintly  than  she  did  at  that  moment.  He  rose  and  went  towards 
the  closet  to  open  the  door;  Madame  de  Merret  took  him  by 
the  hand  and  stopped  him;  she  looked  at  him  with  a  sad  air 
and  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  strangely  shaken:  "If  you  find 
no  one,  remember  that  all  is  over  between  us." 

The  infinite  dignity  of  his  wife's  demeanor  restored  her 
husband's  respect  for  her,  and  suddenly  inspired  him  with 
one  of  those  resolutions  which  need  some  wider  field  to  become 
immortal. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  103 

.  "No,  Josephine,"  he  said,  "I  will  not  look  there.  In  either 
case  we  should  be  separated  forever.  Listen  to  me:  I  know 
the  purity  of  your  soul,  I  know  that  you  lead  a  saintly  life; 
you  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin  to  save  yourself  from  death." 

At  these  words,  Madame  de  Merret  looked  at  her  husband 
with  a  haggard  eye. 

"Here  is  your  crucifix,"  he  went  on.  "Swear  to  me  before 
God  that  there  is  no  one  in  that  closet  and  I  will  believe  you; 
I  will  not  open  that  door." 

Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and  said,  "I  swear  it." 

"Louder!"  said  her  husband;  "repeat  after  me,  —  I  swear 
before  God  that  there  is  no  person  in  that  closet." 

She  repeated  the  words  composedly. 

"That  is  well,"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  coldly.  After  a 
moment's  silence  he  added,  examining  the  ebony  crucifix  with 
silver,  "That  is  a  beautiful  thing;  I  did  not  know  you  possessed 
it;    it  is  very  artistically  wrought." 

"I  found  it  at  Duvivier's,"  she  replied;  "he  bought  it  of  a 
Spanish  monk  when  those  prisoners-of-war  passed  through 
Vendome  last  year." 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  replacing  the  crucifix  on  the 
wall.  He  rang  the  bell.  Rosalie  was  not  long  in  answering 
it.  Monsieur  de  Merret  went  quickly  up  to  her,  took  her  into 
the  recess  of  a  window  on  the  garden  side,  and  said  to  her  in 
a  low  voice: 

"I  am  told  that  Gorenflot  wants  to  marry  you,  and  that 
poverty  alone  prevents  it,  for  you  have  told  him  you  will  not 
be  his  wife  until  he  is  a  master-mason.     Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"Well,  go  and  find  him;  tell  him  to  come  here  at  once  and 
bring  his  trowel  and  other  tools.  Take  care  not  to  wake  any 
one  at  his  house  but  himself;  he  will  soon  have  enough  money 
to  satisfy  you.  No  talking  to  anyone  when  you  leave  this 
room,  mind,  or  — " 


104  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

He  frowned.  Rosalie  left  the  room.  He  called  her  back;. 
"Here,  take  my  pass-key,"  he  said. 

Monsieur  de  Merret,  who  had  kept  his  wife  in  view  while 
giving  these  orders,  now  sat  down  beside  her  before  the  fire 
and  began  to  tell  her  of  his  game  of  billiards,  and  the  political 
discussions  at  the  club.  When  Rosalie  returned  she  found 
Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  talking  amicably. 

The  master  had  lately  had  the  ceilings  of  all  the  reception 
rooms  on  the  lower  floor  restored.  Plaster  is  very  scarce  at 
Vendome,  and  the  carriage  of  it  makes  it  expensive.  Monsieur 
de  Merret  had  therefore  ordered  an  ample  quantity  for  his  own 
wants,  knowing  that  he  could  readily  find  buyers  for  what  was 
left.  The  circumstance  inspired  the  idea  that  now  possessed  him. 

"Monsieur,  Gorenflot  has  come,"  said  Rosalie. 

"Bring  him  in,"  said  her  master. 

Madame  de  Merret  turned  slightly  pale  when  she  saw  the 
mason. 

"Gorenflot,"  said  her  husband,  "fetch  some  bricks  from 
the  coach-house,  —  enough  to  wall  up  that  door;  use  the  plaster 
that  was  left  over,  to  cover  the  wall." 

Then  he  called  Rosalie  and  the  mason  to  the  end  of  the  room, 
and,  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  added,  "Listen  to  me,  Gorenflot; 
after  you  have  done  this  work  you  will  sleep  in  the  house; 
and  to-morrow  morning  I  will  give  you  a  passport  into  a  foreign 
country,  and  six  thousand  francs  for  the  journey.  Go  through 
Paris  where  I  will  meet  you.  There,  I  will  secure  to  you  legally 
another  six  thousand  francs,  to  be  paid  to  you  at  the  end  of  ten 
years  if  you  still  remain  out  of  France.  For  this  sum,  I  demand 
absolute  silence  on  what  you  see  and  do  this  night.  As  for  you, 
Rosalie,  I  give  you  a  dowry  of  ten  thousand  francs,  on  con- 
dition that  you  marry  Gorenflot,  and  keep  silence,  if  not  — " 

"Rosalie,"  said  Madame  de  Merret,  "come  and  brush  my 
hair." 

The  husband  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  watching  the 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  105 

door,  the  mason,  and  his  wife,  but  without  allowing  the  least 
distrust  or  misgiving  to  appear  in  his  manner.  Gorenflot's 
work  made  some  noise;  under  cover  of  it  Madame  de  Merret 
said  hastily  to  Rosalie,  while  her  husband  was  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room.  "A  thousand  francs  annuity  if  you  tell 
Gorenflot  to  leave  a  crevice  at  the  bottom";  then  aloud  she 
added,  composedly,  "Go  and  help  the  mason." 

Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  remained  silent  during  the 
whole  time  it  took  Gorenflot  to  wall  up  the  door.  The  silence 
was  intentional  on  the  part  of  the  husband  to  deprive  his  wife 
of  all  chance  of  saying  words  with  a  double  meaning  which  might 
be  heard  within  the  closet;  with  Madame  de  Merret  it  was 
either  prudence  or  pride. 

When  the  wall  was  more  than  half  up,  the  mason's  tool 
broke  one  of  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  closet  door;  Monsieur  de 
Merret's  back  was  at  that  moment  turned  away.  The  action 
proved  to  Madame  de  Merret  that  Rosalie  had  spoken  to  the 
mason.  In  that  one  instant  she  saw  the  dark  face  of  a  man  with 
black  hair  and  fiery  eyes.  Before  her  husband  turned  the  poor 
creature  had  time  to  make  a  sign  with  her  head  which  meant 
"Hope." 

By  four  o'clock,  just  at  dawn,  for  it  was  in  the  month  of 
September,  the  work  was  done.  Monsieur  de  Merret  remained 
that  night  in  his  wife's  room.  The  next  morning,  on  rising,  he 
said,  carelessly:  "Ah!  I  forgot,  I  must  go  to  the  mayor's  office 
about  that  passport." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  made  three  steps  to  the  door,  then  checked 
himself,  turned  back,  and  took  the  crucifix. 

His  wife  trembled  with  joy.  "He  will  go  to  Duvivier's,"  she 
thought. 

The  moment  her  husband  had  left  the  house  she  rang  for 
Rosalie.  "The  pick-axe!"  she  cried,  "the  pick-axe.  I  watched 
how  Gorenflot  did  it;  we  shall  have  time  to  make  a  hole  and 
close  it  again." 


106  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

In  an  instant  Rosalie  had  brought  a  sort  of  cleaver,  and  her 
mistress,  with  a  fury  no  words  can  describe,  began  to  demolish 
the  wall.  She  had  knocked  away  a  few  bricks,  and  was  drawing 
back  to  strike  a  still  more  vigorous  blow  with  all  her  strength, 
when  she  saw  her  husband  behind  her.     She  fainted. 

"Put  madame  on  her  bed,"  said  her  husband,  coldly. 

Foreseeing  what  would  happen,  he  had  laid  this  trap  for  his 
wife;  he  had  written  to  the  mayor,  and  sent  for  Duvivier. 
The  jeweller  arrived  just  as  the  room  had  been  again  put  in 
order. 

"Duvivier,"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  "I  think  you  bought 
some  crucifixes  of  those  Spaniards  who  were  here  last  year?" 

"No,  monsieur,  I  did  not." 

"Very  good;  thank  you,"  he  said,  with  a  tigerish  glance  at 
his  wife.  "Jean,"  he  added  to  the  footman,  "serve  my  meals 
in  Madame  de  Merret's  bedroom;  she  is  very  ill,  and  I  shall 
not  leave  her  till  she  recovers." 

For  twenty  days  that  man  remained  beside  his  wife.  During 
the  first  hours,  when  sounds  were  heard  behind  the  walled  door, 
and  Josephine  tried  to  implore  mercy  for  the  dying  stranger, 
he  answered,  without  allowing  her  to  utter  a  word: 

"You  swore  upon  the  cross  that  no  one  was  there." 

As  the  tale  ended  the  women  rose  from  table,  and  the  spell 
under  which  Bianchon  had  held  them  was  broken.  Neverthe- 
less, several  of  them  were  conscious  of  a  cold  chill  as  they 
recalled  the  last  words. 


PART    II 


HOW    TO     SEE     A     STORY    IN 
EVERYDAY    LIFE 


PART    II 

INTRODUCTION 
HOW  TO   SEE  A  STORY  IN  EVERYDAY  LIFE 

In  the  preceding  section  we  attempted  to  tell  what  a  story  is 
by  defining  its  elements  as  they  exist  in  life  and  as  they  are 
recomposed  in  the  mind  of  a  writer.  In  the  present  section 
we  shall  illustrate  more  fully  what  kind  of  observations  count 
for  the  teller  of  tales,  how  he  hits  on  a  plot,  and  how  he  elabo- 
rates a  situation  out  of  the  latent  possibilities  of  incident  and 
character. 

But  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that,  whether  the  tales  are 
written  out  or  not,  a  great  deal  of  daily  pleasure  may  be  had  by 
cultivating  in  one's  mind  some  of  the  methods  of  fiction,  and  in 
looking  at  life  as  if  it  were  material  for  fiction.  For  skill  in 
seeing  a  story  implies  only  an  aptitude  for  relating  to  each  other 
the  circumstances  of  life,  for  harmonizing  them,  for  giving  them 
emphatic  shape  and  meaning.  It  implies  an  aptitude  for 
keeping  life  fresh  and  interesting.  Hence  it  is  one  of  the  ele- 
ments of  that  art  of  seeing  life  steadily  and  seeing  it  whole 
which  a  famous  critic  has  called  the  aim  of  culture. 

One  of  the  first  aids  in  his  craft  which  the  teller  of  tales  dis- 
covers is  the  oft  remarked  unity  of  human  affairs.  He  sees  that 
since  all  our  acts,  all  phases  of  our  character,  even  our  most 
trifling  moods  and  whims,  ultimately  affect  one  another,  there 
may  always  be  for  the  student  of  the  fiction  of  life  a  suggestion 
in  any  incident  or  in  any  trait  of  character.  It  is  a  link  in  the 
endless  chain  of  circumstance  and  therefore  part  of  a  story. 
Given  two  or  three  links,  he  should  be  able  to  construct  more 
of  the  chain  imaginatively.     He  need  not  pry  into  private  affairs, 


no       HOW  TO  SEE  A  STORY  IN   EVERYDAY  LIFE 

but  from  what  he  sees  he  can  make  a  fictional  world,  closely 
resembling  the  actual  world,  and  there  satisfy  his  curiosity, 
his  sense  of  cause  and  effect.  This  is  an  exercise  in  logic,  and 
it  should  be  remarked  here  that  to  discover  causes  and  effects, 
whether  in  life  or  in  a  story,  is  exercising  the  logical  imagination. 
All  imagination  results  from  the  demands  of  logic.  For  logic 
is  only  our  term  for  expressing  the  inevitable  unity  of  things  in 
our  world.  What  we  mean  by  seeing  a  story  in  everyday  life 
may  thus  become  the  most  practical  training  of  the  mind. 

To  illustrate  some  of  these  points  let  us  look  into  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  story  in  the  following  section,  The  Necklace.  The 
plot  and  characters  that  Maupassant  emphasizes  represent  but 
one  phase  in  many  suggested  by  the  general  situation.  That 
situation  is  this :  a  borrowed  necklace  is  lost,  and  to  pay  for  the 
one  replaced  the  losers  work  a  life-time,  only  to  discover  at  last 
that  the  original  was  not  genuine,  but  paste,  worth  at  most  a 
few  hundred  francs.  This  is  the  plot  element  in  its  broadest 
terms.  It  can  be  made  the  theme  of  a  dozen  different  stories 
by  as  many  changes  of  emphasis.  Maupassant's  treatment 
concerns  an  ambitious  young  wife  who  dreams  of  social  success, 
and  who,  finally,  for  the  sake  of  an  evening  at  a  ball,  spends 
most  of  her  husband's  savings  on  a  dress,  and  then,  not  quite 
satisfied,  borrows  a  diamond  necklace  from  a  friend.  She 
loses  the  necklace,  and  to  pay  for  the  one  they  substitute  she 
and  her  husband  work  like  drudges  for  years.  In  the  end  they 
learn  the  truth.  The  necklace  was  paste  —  like  madame's 
social  ambitions. 

It  may  seem  a  simple  matter  to  manage  this  plot.  Indeed, 
I  have  heard  people  say  that  anyone  who  had  happened  to  think 
of  this  clever  little  notion  could  most  certainly  sell  it.  There 
are,  however,  a  good  many  points  to  attend  to  before  it  will 
become  a  logical  affair.  Why  should  madame  care  so  much 
about  going  to  the  ball?  Why  must  she  have  a  necklace?  Why 
did  she  not  at  once  tell  her  friend,  Madame  Forestier,  about 


THE  FIRST  AXIOM  in 

losing  it?  Or  why,  before  this,  did  not  Madame  Forestier  tell 
her  that  it  was  only  paste?  Monsieur  Loisel  was  a  practical 
sort  of  man;  why  did  he  not  look  at  the  affair  more  clearly?  In 
Maupassant's  handling  of  the  characters  all  these  questions  are 
answered  with  perfect  reason  —  that  is,  you  do  not  raise  such 
questions  at  all.  The  more  you  think  over  the  story,  as  he  wrote 
it,  the  more  logically  imagined  you  will  perceive  it  to  be  —  to 
the  point  of  genius. 

The  first  axiom  for  seeing  a  story  in  everyday  life  is,  then: 
See  it  as  part  of  a  logical  sequence  of  cause  and  effect. 

We  said  that  Maupassant's  story  represents  but  one  phase 
of  a  general  plot.  If  the  emphasis  is  shifted  definitely  from  the 
fact  of  losing  the  necklace  to  the  people  who  lose  it,  we  may  see 
a  different  story  forming  round  this  plot.  It  might,  for  example, 
be  the  story  of  how  the  husband  and  wife,  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Loisel,  in  the  face  of  their  misfortune,  became  more  united, 
less  trivial,  developing  real  energy  and  real  ambition;  and  how, 
when  they  discover  that  they  have  been  working  to  replace  a 
paste  necklace,  that  makes  no  difference  to  them;  they  them- 
selves have  become  genuine.  Or,  it  might  be  the  story  of  a 
romantic  little  wife  who  sought  to  hold  the  affection  of  her 
rather  brutal  husband  by  dressing  well  and  trying  always  to 
appear  beautiful.  For  fear  of  him,  this  Madame  Loisel  would 
have  to  contrive  all  by  herself  the  replacing  of  the  necklace. 
But  the  discovery  of  its  value  might  still  bring  them  together, 
teaching  the  husband  the  pathetic  effects  of  his  brutality  and 
the  extent  of  his  wife's  devotion.  Again,  with  another  shift 
of  emphasis,  there  would  be  the  humorously  pathetic  tale  of 
Monsieur  Loisel  —  how  he  had  for  years  been  trying  to  make 
ends  meet  in  spite  of  his  young  wife's  extravagance,  and  how 
he  was  almost  glad  to  have  her  realize  at  last,  by  whatever  means, 
that  economy  ought  to  be  their  rule.  For  a  few  days  Madame 
Loisel  begins  a  new  life,  with  repentance  and  resolutions. 
Then    she    discovers  that    the    necklace  is  only  paste,  and 


H2     HOW  TO  SEE  A  STORY  IN  EVERYDAY  LIFE 

immediately  celebrates  by  plunging  into  greater  extravagance 
than  ever.  Each  of  these  stories  would  require  a  slightly  dif- 
ferent arrangement  of  the  facts.  In  the  last  instance,  for 
example,  the  Loisels  should  not  be  very  poor,  and  the  lost 
necklace  need  not  be  so  costly  as  to  have  ruined  them.  There 
might  also  be  various  stories  with  Madame  Forestier  as  the 
motivating  force,  How  she  pretended  to  Madame  Loisel 
that  the  necklace  was  genuine,  and  (for  reasons  to  be  care- 
fully developed  by  the  writer)  was  too  proud  to  admit  her 
rather  harmless  deceit.  Or  it  might  be  that  Madame  Fo- 
restier, on  learning  that  the  necklace  was  lost,  suddenly  con- 
ceived the  notion  (for  reasons  to  be  carefully  developed  by 
the  writer)  of  making  a  few  thousand  francs  on  its  value.  Com- 
plex and  dramatic  situations  should  easily  result  from  such 
a  start  in  falsehood.  The  story  of  the  cabman  in  whose  cab 
the  necklace  was  probably  lost  could  be  written  up  from  various 
points  of  view:  his  temptation  to  keep  the  necklace;  or  his 
discovery,  on  trying  to  sell  it,  that  it  was  paste,  and  all  that 
might  conceivably  follow  from  that.  The  drama  of  this  man, 
treated  in  conjunction  with  some  of  the  other  elements  of  the 
larger  plot,  would  lead  to  rather  exciting  developments.  To 
Fool  the  Ignorant  is  a  version  of  the  cabman's  story  that  shows 
how  far  the  constructive  imagination  of  an  undergraduate  will 
travel  in  the  borders  of  this  very  interesting  case. 

It  is  true  that  so  versatile,  so  workable  a  plot  as  that  of 
The  Necklace  is  rare.  Most  plots  neither  are  in  themselves 
so  pointed,  nor  do  they  make  so  large  an  area  of  suggestion. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  writer  with  small  logic  and  less  imagination 
would  probably  not  see  in  the  bare  plot,  or  what  we  call  the 
plot  element,  a  story  in  life.  He  would  see  only  a  snappy 
anecdote,  a  strange  case.  Written  up  solely  for  the  surprise 
of  the  denouement,  this  plot  will  make  little  impression.  It  is 
only  when  related  to  character  that  it  takes  on  meaning;  for 
only  then  does  the  unusual  element  in  the  plot  —  the  fact  that 


THE  SECOND  AXIOM  113 

the  diamonds  turn  out  to  be  paste  —  humanize  and  moralize 
the  whole. 

Thus  we  come  to  a  second  axiom:  In  order  to  see  a  plot  as 
part  of  a  logical  sequence  in  life,  look  at  it  from  the  point  of  view 
of  some  one  character,  or  some  character  relationship,  and  make  it 
over  to  fit  special  conditions. 

From  these  ideas  it  may  properly  be  concluded  that  most  of 
those  infrequent,  strange,  dramatic  incidents,  and  those  odd 
and  whimsical  traits  of  character  about  which  we  often  exclaim 
that  they  would  make  a  story  if  we  only  knew  how  to  write 
them  up,  are  by  no  means  the  best  material  for  the  imagi- 
nation. They  belong  to  no  thoroughly  conceivable  sequence. 
They  suggest  few  relationships.  They  are  thus  often  quite 
unrelatable.  If  persistently  made  into  a  story,  they  make  of 
it,  in  turn,  a  mere  tour  deforce. 

We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  strange  and  the  whimsical 
are  never  good  subjects  for  fiction  (for  making  over).  Too 
obviously,  they  form  a  large  part  of  current  fiction.  But 
the  reason  why  most  stories  dealing  with  such  things  die  within 
the  month  or  the  year  they  are  born  is  a  point  in  our  case. 
It  is  not  because  they  deal  with  the  exceptional  rather  than  the 
universal,  —  for  there  is  no  such  distinction  in  true  art,  —  but 
because  they  fail  to  relate  the  exceptional  logically  to  life.  It 
is  because  they  see  their  phenomena  as  apart  from  life  rather 
than  as  a  part  of  life.  In  order  to  emphasize  the  strange, 
the  melodramatic,  the  balefully  tragic,  they  isolate  it.  Such 
elements  a  logical  imagination,  on  the  contrary,  nearly  always 
relates  to  life,  or  at  least  makes  into  a  commentary  on  life. 

Some  of  the  most  significant  masters  of  current  literature 
are  masters  of  the  strange.  There  are  Mrs.  Wharton  and  Joseph 
Conrad  and  Rudyard  Kipling  as  the  latest  supreme  examples. 
But  let  us  take  a  name  more  solidly  famous.  George  Eliot's 
most  artistic  book  might  well  have  been,  in  the  hands  of  Robert 
Chambers,  Rex  Beach,  and  other  super-writers  of  the  moment, 


H4       HOW  TO  SEE  A  STORY  IN  EVERYDAY  LIFE 

only  an  excellent  dime  novel.  The  villain,  Dunstan  Cass, 
finds  himself  badly  out  of  funds.  He  sells  his  brother  God- 
frey's horse,  Wildfire,  for  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds.  But, 
unfortunately,  before  the  money  has  been  paid  over,  Dunstan 
rides  Wildfire  at  a  stake  fence  and  kills  him.  He  then  robs  an 
old  miser  of  two  bags  of  gold  and  immediately  falls  into  a  pond 
outside  the  miser's  hut.  The  weight  of  the  gold  drowns  him. 
A  few  days  later  Godfrey's  despised,  opium-eating  wife  freezes 
to  death  in  a  lane  near  by,  and  her  baby  crawls  through  the 
miser's  doorway.  The  miser  at  first  thinks  that  the  child's 
golden  head  is  his  gold  come  back,  but  surprise  covers  his 
disappointment  and  he  takes  the  child  in.  Thus  the  death 
of  his  blackmailing  brother,  the  death  of  his  opium-eating 
wife,  and  the  disposal  of  his  golden-haired  daughter  all  con- 
spire to  allow  Godfrey  to  marry  his  sweetheart,  Nancy 
Lammeter.  Thus  stated,  how  melodramatic  —  fit  only  for  a 
"  movie  "  —  do  the  plot  elements  of  a  great  classic  appear. 
The  genius  of  logical  imagination  renders  these  elements  con- 
sonant and  full  of  significance. 

So,  in  the  selections  that  follow,  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
incidents  of  The  Fiancee  or  of  A  Page  From  a  Doctor's  Life  are 
typical  rather  than  exceptional,  and  that  the  very  clever  plots 
of  Wellington  and  Left  Behind  are  striking  only  because  they 
appeal  to  our  sense  of  fitness. 

The  problem  of  the  story-writer  who  wishes  to  make  an  effect 
with  the  unusual  is,  then,  not  to  choose  the  unusual  for  its  own 
sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  throwing  over  it  a  coloring  of  imagi- 
nation to  render  it  significant  for  the  rest  of  experience.  Mrs. 
Sembower's  story  of  The  Chaperon  has  an  odd  enough  plot. 
It  is  surely  an  infrequent  occurrence  for  a  country  girl  to  go 
alone  to  the  city  to  have  her  portrait  painted  because  she  has 
won  a  newspaper  guessing  contest.  It  may  be  regarded  as  only 
less  infrequent  that  the  "city  artist"  should  fall  in  love  with 
her.     A  student,  starting  to  work  up  a  story  on  this  undefined 


THE  THIRD   AXIOM  115 

plot,  is  apt  to  think  of  the  chief  composing  force  in  it  as  the 
inevitable  love  affair  —  "The  girl  wins  the  prize  and  of  course 
the  painter  falls  in  love  with  her,  so  she  wins  a  husband,  too. 
The  romance  is  the  point  to  emphasize."  But  these  plot 
elements  are  not  the  composing  forces  of  Mrs.  Sembower's 
story.  The  chief  composing  force  is  the  girl's  home  life  and  her 
reaction  upon  city  conventions.  This  is  a  plain  everyday 
motif,  and  it  touches  on  the  romantic  elements  in  the  plot  for 
emphasis  of  itself.  The  reader  feels  that  the  story  forms  not 
a  whimsical,  but  a  thoroughly  mature,  comment  on  manners. 

Our  third  axiom  therefore  results  from  the  preceding  illus- 
trations: An  incident  or  a  character  becomes  significant,  not 
when  we  isolate  it,  but  when  we  see  so  many  of  its  contacts  and 
bearings  that  it  begins  to  play  a  part  in  our  imagination. 

That  is,  whenever  we  see  the  full  meaning  of  any  act,  trait 
of  character,  emotion,  or  opinion,  we  see  a  whole  story.  And 
whenever  we  can  suggest  the  whole  story  through  the  little 
of  it  that  we  have  space  to  tell,  we  have  seen  the  story  in  life. 
The  faculty  for  doing  this  is  logical  imagination,  and  we  shall 
conclude  this  chapter  with  a  further  word  about  that  faculty. 

We  began  our  discussion  by  remarking  on  the  unity  of  life. 
This  unity  is  felt  rather  than  known.  The  planet  is  too  big, 
too  shadowy,  to  allow  us  to  know  very  many  things  outside  the 
little  lighted  spot  of  our  personal  experience.  If  anyone  could 
really  make  the  great  analysis  of  things  as  they  are  —  we  all 
like  to  guess  how  they  ought  to  be  —  he  could  rule  the  planet. 
But  because  the  world  is  so  big,  the  future  is  dim  and  seems  dimly 
related  to  the  past.  When,  however,  we  shut  off  a  corner  of 
the  world  and  limit  our  attention  to  that,  we  can  make  a  tem- 
porary explanation  of  causes  and  effects.  The  act  of  doing  this 
is  making  a  story,  and  the  skill  required  for  it  is  logical  imagi- 
nation. For  this  corner  must  be  described  logically  —  just  as 
if  it  were  part  of  the  actual  world ;  and  yet  it  must  be  imaginary 
—  just  as  if  it  were  a  little  world  in  itself  where  we  know  the 


u6       HOW  TO  SEE  A  STORY  IN  EVERYDAY  LIFE 

extent  of  all  influences  and  relationships.  Logical  imagination 
is  the  highest  faculty  of  mind,  the  faculty  which  great  philos- 
ophers, great  dramatists,  great  statesmen  have  in  common. 

The  great  stories  are  those  which  most  perfectly  construct 
an  imaginary  corner  of  the  world.  They  are  such  novels  as 
Middlemarch  or  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,  from  which  we 
quote  in  Section  IV.  After  reading  Middlemarch  you  know 
nearly  one  hundred  people.  You  know  thirty  of  them  well 
enough  to  say  not  only  what  they  think  of  each  other  and  how 
their  affairs  affect  each  other,  but  also  well  enough  to  prophesy 
what  their  opinions  and  acts  would  be  in  a  totally  new  set  of 
contingencies.  Middlemarch  is  a  little  world  in  itself,  some- 
thing like  your  own  locality,  but  differing  chiefly,  when  you  stop 
to  think  of  it,  in  the  greater  definiteness  of  its  affairs.  From 
it  an  infinite  number  of  confusing  influences  and  extra  possi- 
bilities are  shut  off  in  order  to  permit  us  to  see  life  there  in  its 
story  form.  So  long  as  Middlemarch  is  a  place  in  fiction  we 
can  see  it  steadily  and  see  it  whole;  put  it  back  into  its  actual 
geography,  call  it  your  own  town  of  Madison,  Wisconsin,  or 
Northampton,  Massachusetts,  and  it  grows  instantly  less  clear. 
The  reason  is  that  it  now  becomes  part  of  the  whole  world. 
If  we  could  surround  Madison  with  a  brass  wall,  all  its  affairs 
would  gradually  become  definite  and  its  problems  would  be 
solvable.  It  would  be  just  like  a  place  in  fiction  —  and  it  is 
a  nice  question  whether  you  would  prefer  to  live  within  the 
brass  wall  or  without  it.  At  all  events,  if  you  can  see  the  affairs 
of  your  town  as  fiction  you  will  be  developing  the  kind  of  imagi- 
nation that  one  day  may  help  to  straighten  them  out.1 

1  As  an  exercise  of  the  logical  imagination  the  writer  once  gave  his  students 
the  following  problem  to  solve:  If  your  state  were  to  be  surrounded  to-night 
by  an  impassable  brass  wall,  what  would  happen  during  the  first  week  of 
isolation?  What  would  be  the  state  of  affairs  after  a  year?  What  would  be  the 
state  of  affairs  after  a  century?  Would  the  people  finally  be  more  or  less  con- 
tented than  before?  Would  the  people  inside  be  more  efficient  than  those  outside? 
Would   they  take   more  interest  or  less  interest  in    their  public  affairs?     Would 


THE  THIRD  AXIOM  117 

Fiction  has  of  late  influenced  the  world  more  than  any  other 
art.  So,  whether  you  are  dealing  with  a  whole  countryside, 
as  in  Middlemarch,  or  with  two  people  in  a  tenement,  as  in  A 
Page  from  a  Doctor's  Life,  you  are  trying  to  hold  a  bit  of  the 
world  steady  enough  for  a  moment  to  see  it  straight,  and  the 
exercise  is  one  which,  could  it  become  a  habit  of  mind  among 
our  citizens,  would  make  the  world  over  more  rapidly  than  the 
plans  of  all  the  politicians  of  Europe'  and  America. 

they  be  broader  or  narrower  minded?     Would  the  people  inside  the  wall  want  to 
get  out  more  than  the  people  outside  would  want  to  get  in? 

For  the  first  week  of  this  discussion  we  advanced  in  theory  no  faster  than  the 
brass-bound  people  would  probably  do  in  practice.  All  was  contradiction  and 
confusion.  But  soon  certain  fundamental  policies  defined  themselves,  and  then 
the  more  fanciful  imagination  of  the  class  began  to  work  logically.  We  arrived 
at  the  following  airy  conclusions:  The  effort  to  pass  the  impassable  wall  would 
never  cease  —  and  this  would  prove  to  be  the  greatest  wit-sharpener  and  tool- 
sharpener  and  the  greatest  boon  to  intramural  civilization.  The  relation  between 
population  and  means  to  a  completely  healthy  life  would  adjust  itself  with  sur- 
prising rapidity.  This  would  be  partly  effected,  as  in  certain  South  Sea  islands, 
by  a  scheme  of  birth  control.  There  would  be  within  a  hundred  years  a  marked 
change  in  the  character  of  the  intramural  race  owing  to  food  and  climatic  influences. 
People  would  become  more  and  more  alike,  and  would  react  against  this  tendency 
so  strongly  that  there  would  be  a  whimsical  and  amusing  faddism  throughout 
society.  As  an  instance  of  what  changes  in  the  countryside  would  be  most  ap- 
parent to  the  eye,  we  discovered  vast  spaces  glassed  over  and  wonderfully  ventilated, 
in  which  to  grow  tropical  products.  We  found  that  dress,  traffic,  and  all  the  me- 
chanics of  daily  life  would  soon  become  so  perfect  that  everyone  would  have  the 
chance  to  reach  an  advanced  state  of  intellectual  culture,  but  that  this  achievement 
would  not  be  the  greatest  source  of  honor  or  of  personal  satisfaction.  That  alone 
would  come  from  personal  contribution  to  work  on  the  vast  excavations  and  mines 
at  the  great  wall.  From  this  final  conclusion  we  proceeded  to  look  at  the  startling 
analogy  in  metal-bound  Europe  of  to-day. 


VII.  THE  FIANCEE1 
Marguerite  Audoux 

QThe  art  of  looking  at  things  vividly  is,  of  course,  essential  to  developing  stories 
out  of  everyday  experience.  In  this  sketch,  by  the  author  of  that  very  vivid  book, 
Marie  Claire,  you  meet  in  a  railway  carriage  a  pleasant  country  couple  who  are 
going  to  the  city  to  their  son's  wedding.  They  have  not  yet  seen  the  fiancee,  — 
they  are  all  expectation.  One  of  the  other  passengers  remarks  humorously  that  you 
yourself  are  perhaps  the  fiancee  come  to  get  a  secret  look  at  your  future  parents. 
This  little  situation,  in  no  way  developed  into  a  plot,  but  only  looked  at  with  that 
sharpness  of  imagination  which  is  always  so  charming  in  Marie  Claire,  is  all  there 
is  of  the  sketch.     It  is  but  a  glimpse,  yet  how  remotely  suggestive.] 

I  was  going  back  to  Paris  after  a  few  days'  holiday.  When 
I  got  to  the  station  the  train  was  crowded.  I  peeped  into  every 
carriage,  hoping  to  find  a  place.  There  was  one  in  the  last 
carriage,  but  two  big  baskets,  out  of  which  ducks  and  hens 
were  peeping,  filled  the  seat.  After  a  long  moment's  hesitation, 
I  decided  to  get  in.  I  apologized  for  disturbing  the  passengers, 
but  a  man  in  a  blouse  said: 

"Wait  a  moment,  mademoiselle;  I'll  take  the  baskets 
down." 

And  while  I  held  the  basket  of  fruit  which  he  had  on  his  knees, 
he  slipped  the  baskets  with  the  ducks  and  hens  under  the  seat. 
The  ducks  did  not  like  it,  and  told  us  so.  The  hens  dropped 
their  heads  as  if  they  had  been  insulted,  and  the  peasant's  wife 
talked  to  them,  calling  them  by  their  names. 

When  I  was  seated,  and  the  ducks  were  quiet,  the  passenger 
opposite  me  asked  the  peasant  whether  he  was  taking  the  birds 
to  market. 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "I  am  taking  them  to  my  son, 
who  is  going  to  be  married  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

1  Reprinted  from  Everybody's  Magazine  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  editors 
and  of  the  author. 


MARGUERITE  AUDOUX  119 

His  face  was  beaming,  and  he  looked  around  as  if  he  wanted 
everybody  to  know  how  happy  he  was.  An  old  woman  who  was 
hunched  up  in  the  corner  among  three  pillows,  and  who  filled 
double  the  space  she  should  occupy,  began  grumbling  about 
peasants  who  took  up  such  a  lot  of  room  in  the  train. 

The  train  started,  and  the  passenger  who  had  asked  about  the 
birds  was  opening  his  newspaper,  when  the  peasant  said  to  him : 

"My  boy  is  in  Paris.  He  is  working  in  a  shop,  and  he  is 
going  to  marry  a  young  lady  who  is  in  a  shop,  too." 

The  passenger  let  his  open  paper  drop  to  his  knees.  He  held 
it  with  one  hand  and,  leaning  forward  a  little,  asked: 

"Is  the  fiancee  pretty?" 

"We  do  not  know,"  said  the  man.  "We  haven't  seen  her 
yet." 

"Really?"  said  the  passenger.  "And  if  she  were  ugly,  and 
you  did  not  like  her?" 

"That  is  one  of  the  things  that  can  always  happen,"  answered 
the  countryman.  "But  I  think  we  shall  like  her,  because  our 
boy  is  too  fond  of  us  to  take  an  ugly  wife." 

"Besides,"  said  the  little  woman  next  me,  "if  she  pleases 
our  Philip,  she  will  please  us,  too." 

She  turned  to  me,  and  her  gentle  eyes  were  full  of  smiles. 
She  had  a  little,  round,  fresh  face,  and  I  could  not  believe  that 
she  was  the  mother  of  a  son  who  was  old  enough  to  marry. 
She  wanted  to  know  whether  I  was  going  to  Paris  too,  and  when 
I  said  yes,  the  passenger  opposite  began  to  joke. 

"I  should  like  to  bet,"  he  said,  "that  this  young  lady  is  the 
fiancee.  She  has  come  to  meet  her  father-  and  mother-in-law, 
without  telling  them  who  she  is." 

Everybody  looked  at  me,  and  I  got  very  red.  The  country- 
man and  his  wife  said,  together: 

"We  should  be  very  pleased  if  it  were  true." 

I  told  them  that  it  was  not  true,  but  the  passenger  reminded 
them  that  I  had  walked  up  and  down  twice  as  if  I  were  looking 


iao  THE  FIANCEE 

for  somebody,  and  that  I  had  been  a  long  time  making  up  my 
mind  to  get  into  that  carriage. 

All  the  other  passengers  laughed,  and  I  explained  as  well  as 
I  could  that  this  was  the  only  place  I  had  found. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  countrywoman.  "I  shall  be  very 
happy  if  our  daughter-in-law  is  like  you." 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband.     "I  hope  she  will  look  like  you." 

The  passenger  kept  up  his  joke;  he  glanced  at  me  maliciously 
and  said  to  the  peasants: 

"When  you  get  to  Paris  you  will  see  that  I  am  not  wrong. 
Your  son  will  say  to  you,  '  Here  is  my  fiancee.'  " 

A  little  while  afterward  the  countrywoman  turned  toward  me, 
fumbled  in  her  basket,  and  pulled  out  a  cake,  saying  that  she 
had  made  it  herself  that  morning.  I  didn't  know  how  to  refuse 
her,  but  I  said  I  had  a  bad  cold  and  a  touch  of  fever,  and  the 
cake  went  back  into  the  basket.  Then  she  offered  me  a  bunch 
of  grapes,  which  I  was  obliged  to  accept.  And  I  had  the  great- 
est difficulty  in  preventing  her  husband  from  going  to  get  me 
something  hot  to  drink  when  the  train  stopped. 

As  I  looked  at  these  good  people,  who  were  so  anxious  to  love 
the  wife  their  son  had  chosen,  I  felt  sorry  that  I  was  not  to  be 
their  daughter-in-law.  I  knew  how  sweet  their  affection  would 
have  been  to  me.  I  had  never  known  my  parents,  and  had 
always  lived  among  strangers. 

Every  now  and  again  I  caught  them  staring  at  me. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  station  in  Paris  I  helped  them  lift 
their  baskets  down,  and  showed  them  the  way  out.  I  moved 
a  little  away  from  them  as  I  saw  a  tall  young  man  rush  at  them 
and  hug  them.  He  kissed  them  over  and  over  again,  one  after 
the  other.  They  smiled  and  looked  very  happy.  They  did 
not  hear  the  porters  shouting  as  they  bumped  into  them  with 
the  luggage. 

I  followed  them  to  the  gate.  The  son  had  passed  one  arm 
through  the  handle  of  the  basket  with  the  hens,  and  thrown 


MARGUERITE  AUDOUX  121 

the  other  round  his  mother's  waist.  Like  his  father,  he  had 
happy  eyes  and  a  broad  smile. 

Outside  it  was  nearly  dark.  I  turned  up  the  collar  of  my  coat, 
and  I  remained  a  few  steps  behind  the  happy  old  couple,  while 
their  son  went  to  look  for  a  cab.  The  countryman  stroked  the 
head  of  a  big  hen  with  spots  of  all  colors,  and  said  to  his  wife: 

"If  we  had  known  that  she  was  not  our  daughter-in-law, 
we  might  have  given  her  the  spotted  one." 

His  wife  stroked  the  spotted  hen,  too,  and  said:  "Yes,  if 
we  had  known." 

She  made  a  movement  toward  the  crowd  of  people  who  were 
coming  out  of  the  station,  and,  looking  into  the  distance,  said: 

"She  is  going  off  with  all  those  people." 

The  son  came  back  with  a  cab.  He  put  his  father  and 
mother  into  it  and  got  up  on  to  the  box  by  the  driver.  He  sat 
sideways  so  as  not  to  lose  sight  of  them.  He  looked  strong  and 
gentle,  and  I  thought,  "His  fiancee  is  a  happy  girl." 

When  the  cab  had  disappeared  I  went  slowly  out  into  the 
streets.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  go  back  to  my 
lonely  little  room.  I  was  twenty  years  old,  and  nobody  had 
ever  spoken  of  love  to  me. 


VIII.  A  PAGE  FROM  THE  DOCTOR'S  LIFE 
F.  W.  Stuart,  Jr. 

[Harvard  University] 

[Like  the  last,  this  piece  shows  how  to  color  the  fictional  element  in  the 
everyday  material  about  one.  It  does  not  show  how  to  relate  it  to  a  significant 
plot,  as  in  the  case  of  the  succeeding  selections.  How  to  emphasize  plot,  how  to 
imbed  it  in  the  fictional  element  and  make  it  truly  formative  there,  is,  of  course, 
the  writer's  most  important  problem.  To  make  these  two  sketches  over  into 
stories  with  plot  is  an  interesting  exercise.] 

Poverty  Village  was  well  named.  So  evident  was  this  fact 
that  its  inhabitants  accepted  the  name  without  protest.  As 
is  the  habit  of  "Poverty  Villages,"  it  stood  on  the  flats  near  the 
water.  Its  rows  of  neglected,  weather-stained  houses  teemed 
with  unfortunates  whose  share  of  this  world's  goods  just  sufficed 
to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  Poverty  was  the  lot  of  all  who 
lived  within  its  borders,  and  only  too  often  poverty  was  the 
near  neighbor  of  pauperism  and  crime.  Few  were  they  who 
came  from  the  outer  world  into  Poverty  Village,  and  these  usually 
to  minister  to  its  miseries  —  the  policeman  and  the  priest,  the 
nurse,  the  doctor,  and  the  undertaker. 

Thus  it  happened  that  one  unusually  hot  August  afternoon 
the  "city  doctor"  was  going  about  Poverty  Village  waging  his 
unequal  battle  against  want  and  ignorance.  Wearily  he  turned 
into  an  alley,  stopped  for  a  moment  in  front  of  one  of  its  houses, 
and  gazed,  almost  wistfully,  at  the  knob  of  the  door-bell.  In 
Poverty  Village  the  door-bell  has  only  one  purpose.  To  it  the 
undertaker  attaches  the  piece  of  crape  which  tells  of  death. 
A  look  of  disappointment  passed  over  the  doctor's  face  as  he 
saw  that  death  had  not  yet  come  to  bring  relief  to  the  unfor- 
tunate whom  he  was  about  to  visit.     With  a  heavy  heart  he 


F.  W.   STUART,  JR.  123 

climbed  the  stairway  and  entered  a  bare,  scantily  furnished 
room. 

At  an  open  window  sat  the  patient,  a  young  man  about  twenty- 
seven  years  old.  The  extreme  emaciation,  the  hectic  flush,  and 
the  hacking  cough  told  only  too  plainly  that  consumption  was 
soon  to  count  him  another  victim.  In  response  to  the  doctor's 
"How  are  you?"  he  replied  eagerly,  "About  the  same.  I'm 
glad  you've  come."  His  voice  was  so  hoarse  as  to  be  hardly 
intelligible.  He  was  suffering  from  tubercular  laryngitis. 
He  could  speak  only  with  great  difficulty,  and  was  unable  to 
swallow  at  all  until  his  larynx  had  been  painted  with  cocaine. 
So  three  times  a  day  the  doctor  came  to  give  him  a  few  moments 
of  relief,  a  few  moments  which  he  might  use  to  take  a  little  food 
and  drink. 

As  the  doctor  took  out  his  instruments  and  prepared  to  per- 
form his  act  of  mercy,  the  patient,  with  a  nod  toward  the  table, 
said,  "See  what  they  have  brought  me." 

Sadness  and  sarcasm  could  be  detected  in  the  weak,  painful 
voice.  There  on  the  table  were  a  chocolate  cake,  a  Bible,  and 
a  hymn  book,  brought  by  the  friendly  charity  visitor  who  had 
charge  of  "the  case."  The  doctor  could  not  repress  a  smile 
as  he  looked  at  the  rich  cake,  which  would  have  proved  a  severe 
test  even  for  his  robust  digestion. 

He  picked  up  the  Bible,  one  of  the  kind  so  often  distributed 
by  religious  societies.  It  was  printed  on  poor  paper  and  with 
such  fine  type  that  it  would  seem  as  if  the  Bible  societies  and 
the  oculists  must  have  entered  into  a  secret  compact  whereby 
both  were  to  benefit.  With  an  air  of  impatience  the  doctor  laid 
the  Bible  down,  and  picked  up  the  hymn  book.  This  he  opened 
at  random,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  words 

"One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
Nearer  my  Father's  house  am  I 
Than  e'er  I  was  before." 


124  A  PAGE  FROM  THE  DOCTOR'S  LIFE 

The  doctor  had  not  attended  church  since  his  college  days, 
but,  as  he  read  the  words  of  the  hymn,  he  was  carried  back 
to  his  Sunday  school,  to  the  days  when  he  pictured  the  Almighty 
as  an  old  man  with  a  long  white  beard,  seated  in  an  armchair 
such  as  was  to  be  found  in  every  New  England  parlor.  He 
remembered  how  lustily  he  had  joined  in  singing  those  words, 
when  the  cares  of  life  and  the  solemnity  of  death  were  unknown 
to  him. 

But  now  in  the  presence  of  the  sufferer  who  was  really 
so  near  his  Father's  house  there  seemed  something  incon- 
gruous in  the  fact  that  he,  who  was  doing  his  best  to  fight  off 
death,  should  read  of  this  sweetly  solemn  thought.  Perhaps 
it  was  with  regret  that  the  doctor  looked  back  to  those 
careless  schoolboy  days.  His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by 
the  querulous  voice  of  the  patient,  who  said,  "Doctor,  please 
hurry.  I've  suffered  to-day  terribly  from  the  heat.  I'm  so 
thirsty." 

The  doctor  thus  called  to  his  duty  laid  down  the  hymn  book, 
and  in  a  moment  had  deftly  painted  the  patient's  throat  with 
cocaine.  He  then  reached  under  the  sink  and  drew  forth 
the  patient's  dinner.  And  how  insufficient  a  dinner  it  was  — 
a  pint  of  milk  which  through  long  standing  had  become  warm 
and  insipid. 

Relieved  of  his  pain  and  somewhat  refreshed  by  the  milk, 
the  sick  man  brightened  considerably  and  began  to  apologize 
to  the  doctor  for  his  impatience.  He  became  confidential 
and  related  his  sad  story,  only  too  familiar  to  the  doctor  —  the 
old,  old  story  of  bad  heredity,  bad  environment,  and  bad  habits. 
Like  many  an  ill-nourished  boy  he  had  early  acquired  a  love  for 
stimulants,  and  alcohol  had  made  him  an  easy  prey  to  consump- 
tion. The  talking  soon  tired  him,  and  with  a  look  at  the 
chocolate  cake  he  finished  by  saying,  "I  would  give  a  dozen 
of  them  for  one  cold  glass  of  beer." 

There  was  something  so  earnest,  so  pitiful,  in  his  manner 


F    W.   STUART,  JR.  125 

that  the  doctor  immediately  seized  the  milk  can  and  hurried 
to  the  nearest  bar-room.  He  returned  with  the  beer,  and 
then  bade  his  patient  good-bye  until  evening. 

In  the  evening  his  patient  appeared  to  be  quite  comfort- 
able and  in  a  very  happy  mood.  With  considerable  humor 
he  told  how  the  charity  visitor  had  called  and  caught  him 
drinking  beer.  His  description  of  the  horror  of  that  most 
worthy  woman  as  she  gazed  now  at  the  untouched  cake  and  now 
at  the  empty  can  was  full  of  homely  wit.  One  thing  troubled 
him  a  little.  He  had  felt  obliged  to  tell  her  that  it  was  the 
doctor  who  had  purchased  the  beer  for  him.  That  she  had 
made  clear  to  him  her  opinion  of  a  man  who  apparently  pre- 
ferred Puck,  Judge,  and  beer  to  Bible,  hymn  book,  and  cake, 
was  quite  evident.  And  he  feared  that  she  would  at  the  first 
opportunity  make  things  unpleasant  for  his  real  friend.  He 
was  quickly  reassured  on  this  point  by  the  doctor,  who,  how- 
ever, kept  discreetly  to  himself  his  opinion  of  some  of  that  form 
of  religious  dissipation  which  passes  for  "charity  work."  Soon, 
doctor  and  patient  parted  with  a  "goodnight"  which  sounded 
more  cheerful  than  for  a  long  time. 

Toward  morning  a  loud  ring  called  the  doctor  to  his 
door.  There  stood  the  mother  of  his  patient  sobbing 
in  agony  and  crying:  "Come  quick;  my  boy  is  dead." 
When  the  doctor  reached  the  house  he  found  the  patient 
lying,  as  it  were,  peacefully  asleep,  but  his  sleep  was  the 
sleep  of  death. 

With  a  sense  of  relief  the  doctor  looked  for  the  last  time  into 
the  upturned  face,  and  left  the  house.  He  went  down  to  the 
foot  of  the  street  and  stood  at  a  place  where  he  could  look  out 
over  the  harbor.  Dawn  had  just  begun  to  tinge  the  eastern 
sky.  The  atmosphere  was  like  the  stillness  of  a  dream.  The 
doctor  tried  for  some  moments  to  understand  the  mystery  that 
lay  behind  him.  In  the  sad  story  of  the  young  man  there  ap- 
peared a  peculiar  irony,  especially  in  the  fact  that  the  enemy 


126  A  PAGE  FROM  THE  DOCTOR'S  LIFE 

which  had  lured  him  to  his  death  had  given  him  his  last  painless 
moments.  As  the  doctor  recalled  the  sufferings  and  thought 
of  the  quiet  of  the  death  chamber,  it  seemed  as  if  in  this  case 
one  might  well  speak  of  the  Angel  of  Death. 

Then,  a  milkwagon  rushing  past  disturbed   his    thoughts. 
He  turned  about  and  went  on  into  the  toil  of  the  day. 


IX.  THE  NECKLACE1 
Guy  de  Maupassant 

[This  story  is  commented  upon  at  length  in  the  Introduction  to  Part  II,  pages 
110-113.  It  is  interesting  to  discuss  what  may  have  been  the  initial  suggestion 
from  which  any  story  is  written.  In  this  case,  was  it  the  character  of  Madame 
Loisel,  a  type  of  woman  that  the  author  wished  to  define;  or,  was  it  the  clever 
surprise  at  the  end  of  the  narrative?  This  surprise,  at  first  thought,  strikes  us  as 
the  outstanding  and  original  feature  of  the  plot.] 

She  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charming  girls  who  are 
sometimes,  as  if  by  a  mistake  of  destiny,  born  in  a  family  of 
clerks.  She  had  no  dowry,  no  expectations,  no  means  of  being 
known,  understood,  loved,  wedded,  by  any  rich  and  distinguished 
man;  and  she  let  herself  be  married  to  a  little  clerk  at  the 
Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

She  dressed  plainly  because  she  could  not  dress  well,  but  she 
was  as  unhappy  as  though  she  had  really  fallen  from  her  proper 
station;  since  with  women  there  is  neither  caste  nor  rank; 
and  beauty,  grace,  and  charm  act  instead  of  family  and  birth. 
Natural  fineness,  instinct  for  what  is  elegant,  suppleness  of  wit, 
are  the  sole  hierarchy,  and  make  from  women  of  the  people  the 
equals  of  the  very  greatest  ladies. 

She  suffered  ceaselessly,  feeling  herself  born  for  all  the  deli- 
cacies and  all  the  luxuries.  She  suffered  from  the  poverty  of 
her  dwelling,  from  the  wretched  look  of  the  walls,  from  the  worn- 
out  chairs,  from  the  ugliness  of  the  curtains.  All  those  things, 
of  which  another  woman  of  her  rank  would  never  even  have 
been  conscious,  tortured  her  and  made  her  angry.  The  sight 
of  the  little  Breton  peasant  who  did  her  humble  house-work 
aroused  in  her  regrets  which  were  despairing,  and  distracted 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Odd  Number  with  the  kind  permission  of  Harper  and 
Brothers. 


128  THE  NECKLACE 

dreams.  She  thought  of  the  silent  antechambers  hung  with 
Oriental  tapestry,  lit  by  tall  bronze  candelabra,  and  of  the  two 
great  footmen  in  knee-breeches  who  sleep  in  the  big  arm- 
chairs, made  drowsy  by  the  heavy  warmth  of  the  hot-air 
stove.  She  thought  of  the  long  salons  fitted  up  with  ancient 
silk,  of  the  delicate  furniture  carrying  priceless  curiosities, 
and  of  the  coquettish  perfumed  boudoirs  made  for  talks 
at  five  o'clock  with  intimate  friends,  with  men  famous  and 
sought  after,  whom  all  women  envy  and  whose  attention  they 
all  desire. 

When  she  sat  down  to  dinner,  before  the  round  table  covered 
with  a  table-cloth  three  days  old,  opposite  her  husband,  who 
uncovered  the  soup-tureen  and  declared  with  an  enchanted 
air,  "Ah,  the  good  pot-au-feu!  I  don't  know  anything  better 
than  that,"  she  thought  of  dainty  dinners,  of  shining  silverware, 
of  tapestry  which  peopled  the  walls  with  ancient  personages 
and  with  strange  birds  flying  in  the  midst  of  a  fairy  forest; 
and  she  thought  of  delicious  dishes  served  on  marvellous  plates, 
and  of  the  whispered  gallantries  which  you  listen  to  with  a 
sphinx-like  smile,  while  you  are  eating  the  pink  flesh  of  a  trout 
or  the  wings  of  a  quail. 

She  had  no  dresses,  no  jewels,  nothing.  And  she  loved  nothing 
but  that;  she  felt  made  for  that.  She  would  so  have  liked  to 
please,  to  be  envied,  to  be  charming,  to  be  sought  after. 

She  had  a  friend,  a  former  school-mate  at  the  convent,  who 
was  rich,  and  whom  she  did  not  like  to  go  and  see  any  more, 
because  she  suffered  so  much  when  she  came  back. 

But  one  evening  her  husband  returned  home  with  a  trium- 
phant air,  and  holding  a  large  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"There,"  said  he,  "here  is  something  for  you." 

She  tore  the  paper  sharply,  and  drew  out  a  printed  card  which 
bore  these  words: 

"The  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  and  Mme.  Georges 
Ramponneau  request  the  honor  of  M.  and  Mme.  Loisel's  com- 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  129 

pany  at  the  palace  of  the  Ministry  on  Monday  evening,  January 
18th." 

Instead  of  being  delighted,  as  her  husband  hoped,  she  threw 
the  invitation  on  the  table  with  disdain,  murmuring: 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  that?" 

"But,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  would  be  glad.  You  never 
go  out,  and  this  is  such  a  fine  opportunity.  I  had  awful  trouble 
to  get  it.  Everyone  wants  to  go;  it  is  very  select,  and  they 
are  not  giving  many  invitations  to  clerks.  The  whole  official 
world  will  be  there." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  irritated  eye,  and  she  said,  im- 
patiently: 

"And  what  do  you  want  me  to  put  on  my  back?" 

He  had  not  thought  of  that;   he  stammered: 

"Why,  the  dress  you  go  to  the  theatre  in.  It  looks  very 
well,  to  me." 

He  stopped,  distracted,  seeing  that  his  wife  was  crying. 
Two  great  tears  descended  slowly  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes 
towards  the  corners  of  her  mouth.     He  stuttered: 

"What's  the  matter?     What's  the  matter?" 

But,  by  a  violent  effort,  she  had  conquered  her  grief,  and 
she  replied,  with  a  calm  voice,  while  she  wiped  her  wet  cheeks: 

"Nothing.  Only  I  have  no  dress,  and  therefore  I  can't  go 
to  this  ball.  Give  your  card  to  some  colleague  whose  wife  is 
better  equipped  than  I." 

He  was  in  despair.     He  resumed: 

"Come,  let  us  see,  Mathilde.  How  much  would  it  cost, 
a  suitable  dress,  which  you  could  use  on  other  occasions,  some- 
thing very  simple?" 

She  reflected  several  seconds,  making  her  calculations  and 
wondering  also  what  sum  she  could  ask  without  drawing  on 
herself  an  immediate  refusal  and  a  frightened  exclamation  from 
the  economical  clerk. 

Finally,  she  replied,  hesitatingly: 


130  THE  NECKLACE 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  think  I  could  manage  it  with 
four  hundred  francs." 

He  had  grown  a  little  pale,  because  he  was  laying  aside  just 
that  amount  to  buy  a  gun  and  treat  himself  to  a  little  shooting 
next  summer  on  the  plain  of  Nanterre,  with  several  friends 
who  went  to  shoot  larks  down  there,  of  a  Sunday. 

But  he  said: 

"AH  right.  I  will  give  you  four  hundred  francs.  And  try 
to  have  a  pretty  dress." 

The  day  of  the  ball  drew  near,  and  Mme.  Loisel  seemed  sad, 
uneasy,  anxious.  Her  dre,ss  was  ready,  however.  Her  husband 
said  to  her  one  evening: 

"What  is  the  matter?  Come,  you've  been  so  queer  these 
last  three  days." 

And  she  answered: 

"It  annoys  me  not  to  have  a  single  jewel,  not  a  single  stone, 
nothing  to  put  on.  I  shall  look  like  distress.  I  should  almost 
rather  not  go  at  all." 

He  resumed: 

"You  might  wear  natural  flowers.  It's  very  stylish  at  this 
time  of  the  year.  For  ten  francs  you  can  get  two  or  three 
magnificent  roses." 

She  was  not  convinced. 

"No;  there's  nothing  more  humiliating  than  to  look  poor 
among   other    women    who    are    rich." 

But  her  husband  cried: 

"How  stupid  you  are!  Go  look  up  your  friend  Mme.  Fores- 
tier,  and  ask  her  to  lend  you  some  jewels.  You're  quite  thick 
enough  with  her  to  do  that." 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  joy: 

"It's  true.     I  never  thought  of  it." 

The  next  day  she  went  to  her  friend  and  told  of  her  distress. 

Mme.  Forestier  went  to  a  wardrobe  with  a  glass  door,  took 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  131 

out  a  large  jewel-box,  brought  it  back,  opened  it,  and  said  to 
Mme.  Loisel: 

"Choose,  my  dear." 

She  saw  first  of  all  some  bracelets,  then  a  pearl  necklace, 
then  a  Venetian  cross,  gold  and  precious  stones  of  admirable 
workmanship.  She  tried  on  the  ornaments  before  the  glass, 
hesitated,  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  part  with  them, 
to  give  them  back.     She  kept  asking: 

"Haven't  you  any  more?" 

"Why,  yes.    Look.    I  don't  know  what  you  like." 

All  of  a  sudden  she  discovered,  in  a  black  satin  box,  a  superb 
necklace  of  diamonds  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  with  an 
immoderate  desire.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she  took  it.  She 
fastened  it  around  her  throat,  outside  her  high-necked  dress, 
and  remained  lost  in  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  herself. 

Then  she  asked,  hesitating,  filled  with  anguish: 

"Can  you  lend  me  that,  only  that?" 

"Why,  yes,  certainly." 

She  sprang  upon  the  neck  of  her  friend,  kissed  her  passionately, 
then  fled  with  her  treasure. 

The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.  Mme.  Loisel  made  a  great  suc- 
cess. She  was  prettier  than  them  all,  elegant,  gracious,  smiling, 
and  crazy  with  joy.  All  the  men  looked  at  her,  asked  her  name, 
endeavored  to  be  introduced.  All  the  attaches  of  the  Cabinet 
wanted  to  waltz  with  her.  She  was  remarked  by  the  minister 
himself. 

She  danced  with  intoxication,  with  passion,  made  drunk  by 
pleasure,  forgetting  all,  in  the  triumph  of  her  beauty,  in  the 
glory  of  her  success,  in  a  sort  of  cloud  of  happiness  composed  of 
all  this  homage,  of  all  this  admiration,  of  all  these  awakened 
desires,  and  of  that  sense  of  complete  victory  which  is  so  sweet 
to  woman's  heart. 

She  went  away  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.    Her 


132  THE  NECKLACE 

husband  had  been  sleeping  since  midnight,  in  a  little  deserted 
anteroom,  with  three  other  gentlemen  whose  wives  were  having 
a  very  good  time. 

He  threw  over  her  shoulders  the  wraps  which  he  had  brought, 
modest  wraps  of  common  life,  whose  poverty  contrasted  with 
the  elegance  of  the  ball  dress.  She  felt  this  and  wanted  to  es- 
cape so  as  not  to  be  remarked  by  the  other  women,  who  were 
enveloping  themselves  in  costly  furs. 

Loisel  held  her  back. 

"Wait  a  bit.  You  will  catch  cold  outside.  I  will  go  and 
call  a  cab." 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  him,  and  rapidly  descended  the 
stairs.  When  they  were  in  the  street  they  did  not  find  a  car- 
riage; and  they  began  to  look  for  one,  shouting  after  the  cabmen 
whom  they  saw  passing  by  at  a  distance. 

They  went  down  towards  the  Seine,  in  despair,  shivering 
with  cold.  At  last  they  found  on  the  quay  one  of  those  ancient 
noctambulant  coupes  which,  exactly  as  if  they  were  ashamed  to 
show  their  misery  during  the  day,  are  never  seen  round  Paris 
until  after  nightfall. 

It  took  them  to  their  door  in  the  Rue  des  Martyrs,  and  once 
more,  sadly,  they  climbed  up  homeward.  All  was  ended,  for 
her.  And  as  to  him,  he  reflected  that  he  must  be  at  the  Ministry 
at  ten  o'clock. 

She  removed  the  wraps,  which  covered  her  shoulders,  before 
the  glass,  so  as  once  more  to  see  herself  in  all  her  glory.  But 
suddenly  she  uttered  a  cry.  She  had  no  longer  the  necklace 
around  her  neck! 

Her  husband,  already  half- undressed,  demanded: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

She  turned  madly  towards  him: 

"I  have — I  have  —  I've  lost  Mme.  Forestier's  necklace." 

He  stood  up,  distracted. 

"What!  —  how?  —  Impossible!" 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  133 

And  they  looked  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  in  the  folds  of  her 
cloak,  in  her  pockets,  everywhere.    They  did  not  find  it. 

He  asked: 

"You're  sure  you  had  it  on  when  you  left  the  ball?" 

"Yes,  I  felt  it  in  the  vestibule  of  the  palace." 

"But  if  you  had  lost  it  in  the  street  we  should  have  heard  it 
fall.     It  must  be  in  the  cab." 

"Yes.     Probably.     Did  you  take  his  number?" 

"No.     And  you,  didn't  you  notice  it?" 

"No." 

They  looked,  thunderstruck,  at  one  another.  At  last  Loisel 
put  on  his  clothes. 

"I  shall  go  back  on  foot,"  said  he,  "over  the  whole  route 
which  we  have  taken,  to  see  if  I  can't  find  it." 

And  he  went  out.  She  sat  waiting  on  a  chair  in  her  ball 
dress,  without  strength  to  go  to  bed,  overwhelmed,  without 
fire,  without  a  thought. 

Her  husband  came  back  about  seven  o'clock.  He  had  found 
nothing. 

He  went  to  Police  Headquarters,  to  the  newspaper  offices, 
to  offer  a  reward;  he  went  to  the  cab  companies  —  everywhere, 
in  fact,  whither  he  was  urged  by  the  least  suspicion  of  hope. 

She  waited  all  day,  in  the  same  condition  of  mad  fear  before 
this  terrible  calamity. 

Loisel  returned  at  night  with  a  hollow,  pale  face;  he  had 
discovered  nothing. 

"You  must  write  to  your  friend,"  said  he,  "that  you  have 
broken  the  clasp  of  her  necklace  and  that  you  are  having  it 
mended.     That  will  give  us  time  to  turn  round." 

She  wrote  at  his  dictation. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  they  had  lost  all  hope. 

And  Loisel,  who  had  aged  five  years,  declared: 

"We  must  consider  how  to  replace  that  ornament." 

The  next  day  they  took  the  box  which  had  contained  it,  and 


134  THE  NECKLACE 

they  went  to  the  jeweller  whose  name  was  found  within.  He 
consulted  his  books. 

"It  was  not  I,  madame,  who  sold  that  necklace;  I  must 
simply  have  furnished  the  case." 

Then  they  went  from  jeweller  to  jeweller,  searching  for  a 
necklace  like  the  other,  consulting  their  memories,  sick  both  of 
them  with  chagrin  and  with  anguish. 

They  found,  in  a  shop  at  the  Palais  Royal,  a  string  of  diamonds 
which  seemed  to  them  exactly  like  the  one  they  looked  for.  It  was 
worth  forty  thousand  francs.    They  could  have  it  for  thirty-six. 

So  they  begged  the  jeweller  not  to  sell  it  for  three  days  yet. 
And  they  made  a  bargain  that  he  should  buy  it  back  for  thirty- 
four  thousand  francs,  in  case  they  found  the  other  one  before 
the  end  of  February. 

Loisel  possessed  eighteen  thousand  francs  which  his  father 
had  left  him.    He  would  borrow  the  rest. 

He  did  borrow,  asking  a  thousand  francs  of  one,  five  hundred 
of  another,  five  louis  here,  three  louis  there.  He  gave  notes, 
took  up  ruinous  obligations,  dealt  with  usurers,  and  all  the  race 
of  lenders.  He  compromised  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  risked  his 
signature  without  even  knowing  if  he  could  meet  it;  and, 
frightened  by  the  pains  yet  to  come,  by  the  black  misery  which 
was  about  to  fall  upon  him,  by  the  prospect  of  all  the  physical 
privations  and  of  all  the  moral  tortures  which  he  was  to  suffer, 
he  went  to  get  the  new  necklace,  putting  down  upon  the  mer- 
chant's counter  thirty-six  thousand  francs. 

When  Mme.  Loisel  took  back  the  necklace,  Mme.  Forestier 
said  to  her,  with  a  chilly  manner: 

"You  should  have  returned  it  sooner,  I  might  have  needed  it." 

She  did  not  open  the  case,  as  her  friend  had  so  much  feared. 
If  she  had  detected  the  substitution,  what  would  she  have 
thought,  what  would  she  have  said?  Would  she  not  have 
taken  Mme.  Loisel  for  a  thief? 

Mme.  Loisel  now  knew  the  horrible  existence  of  the  needy. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  135 

She  took  her  part,  moreover,  all  on  a  sudden,  with  heroism. 
That  dreadful  debt  must  be  paid.  She  would  pay  it.  They 
dismissed  their  servant;  they  changed  their  lodgings;  they 
rented  a  garret  under  the  roof. 

She  came  to  know  what  heavy  housework  meant  and  the 
odious  cares  of  the  kitchen.  She  washed  the  dishes,  using  her 
rosy  nails  on  the  greasy  pots  and  pans.  She  washed  the  dirty 
linen,  the  shirts,  and  the  dish-cloths,  which  she  dried  upon  a 
line;  she  carried  the  slops  down  to  the  street  every  morning, 
and  carried  up  the  water,  stopping  for  breath  at  every  landing. 
And,  dressed  like  a  woman  of  the  people,  she  went  to  the  fruit- 
erer, the  grocer,  the  butcher,  her  basket  on  her  arm,  bargaining, 
insulted,  defending  her  miserable  money  sou  by  sou. 

Each  month  they  had  to  meet  some  notes,  renew  others,  ob- 
tain more  time. 

Her  husband  worked  in  the  evening  making  a  fair  copy  of 
some  tradesman's  accounts,  and  late  at  night  he  often  copied 
manuscript  for  five  sous  a  page. 

And  this  life  lasted  ten  years. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  had  paid  everything,  every  thing,  with 
the  rates  of  usury,  and  the  accumulations  of  the  compound  interest. 

Mme.  Loisel  looked  old  now.  She  had  become  the  woman 
of  impoverished  households  —  strong  and  hard  and  rough. 
With  frowsy  hair,  skirts  askew,  and  red  hands,  she  talked  loud 
while  washing  the  floor  with  great  swishes  of  water.  But 
sometimes,  when  her  husband  was  at  the  office,  she  sat  down  near 
the  window,  and  she  thought  of  that  gay  evening  of  long  ago, 
of  that  ball  where  she  had  been  so  beautiful  and  so  feted. 

What  would  have  happened  if  she  had  not  lost  that  necklace? 
Who  knows?  who  knows?  How  life  is  strange  and  changeful! 
How  little  a  thing  is  needed  for  us  to  be  lost  or  to  be  saved ! 

But,  one  Sunday,  having  gone  to  take  a  walk  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  to  refresh  herself  from  the  labors  of  the  week,  she  sud- 


136  THE  NECKLACE 

denly  perceived  a  woman  who  was  leading  a  child.  It  was 
Mme.  Forestier,  still  young,  still  beautiful,  still  charming. 

Mme.  Loisel  felt  moved.  Was  she  going  to  speak  to  her? 
Yes,  certainly.  And  now  that  she  had  paid,  she  was  going  to 
tell  her  all  about  it.     Why  not? 

She  went  up. 

"  Good-day,  Jeanne." 

The  other,  astonished  to  be  familiarly  addressed  by  this  plain 
good- wife,  did  not  recognize  her  at  all,  and  stammered : 

"But  —  madame! — I  do  not  know  —  You  must  have  mis- 
taken." 

"No.     I  am  Mathilde  Loisel." 

Her  friend  uttered  a  cry. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde!     How  you  are  changed!" 

"Yes,  I  have  had  days  hard  enough,  since  I  have  seen  you, 
days  wretched  enough  —  and  that  because  of  you!" 

"Of  me!    How  so?" 

"Do  you  remember  that  diamond  necklace  which  you  lent 
me  to  wear  at  the  ministerial  ball?" 

"Yes.    Well?" 

"Well,  I  lost  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?    You  brought  it  back." 

"I  brought  you  back  another  just  like  it.  And  for  this  we 
have  been  ten  years  paying.  You  can  understand  that  it  was 
not  easy  for  us,  us  who  had  nothing.  At  last  it  is  ended,  and 
I  am  very  glad." 

Mme.  Forestier  had  stopped. 

"You  say  that  you  bought  a  necklace  of  diamonds  to  replace 
mine?" 

"Yes.     You  never  noticed  it,  then!     They  were  very  like." 

And  she  smiled  with  a  joy  which  was  proud  and  naive  at  once. 

Mme.  Forestier,  strongly  moved,  took  her  two  hands. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde!  Why,  my  necklace  was  paste. 
It  was  worth  at  most  five  hundred  francs!" 


X.   "TO  FOOL  THE  IGNORANT" 
Ernest  L.  Meyer 

[University  of  Wisconsin] 

[This  story  is  derived  from  the  preceding,  but  its  plot  covers  a  whole  new 
area.  The  question  of  what  was  the  initial  suggestion  from  which  this  story 
was  written,  can  here  be  definitely  answered,  and  the  development  of  the  writer's 
imagination  can  be  logically  traced.  (See  the  note  on  the  preceding  story,  page 
127.)] 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Mathieu  Le  Farge  came  in  from 
the  stables  and  entered  his  little  home  on  the  Rue  St.  Antoine. 
The  lamp  was  burning  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  food  was  set 
out  for  him,  but  instead  of  sitting  down  to  eat  he  flung  his 
coachman's  cloak  and  hat  across  a  chair  and  paced  to  and  fro 
in  the  narrow  room.  His  eyes,  deeply  set  beneath  heavy  brows, 
glistened  with  suppressed  excitement  as  he  chuckled  to  him- 
self. Suddenly  he  stepped  to  a  closed  door  at  one  side  of  the 
kitchen  and  flung  it  open. 

"Marie!"  he  called  loudly. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment;  then,  hearing  his 
wife  stirring  in  the  other  room,  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
again.  In  a  few  moments  Madame  Le  Farge  entered.  She 
had  flung  a  dark  cloak  over  her  nightdress,  and  this  and 
the  long  black  hair  that  streamed  over  her  shoulders  accented 
the  unnatural  pallor  of  her  face.  She  was  visibly  agitated. 
Her  eyes,  when  she  raised  them  for  a  second  to  gaze  into  her 
husband's  face,  fluttered  with  apprehension.  Her  slight  figure 
seemed  to  shrink  under  the  folds  of  the  cloak. 

"You  —  you  called  me,  Mathieu  —  so  late?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mathieu  exultantly.  "I  called  you.  I 
have  had  rare  good  luck,  Marie.  Our  bread  and  butter  days  are 
over.    We  are  rich  —  rich.     See  what  I  found  to-night." 


138  "TO  FOOL  THE  IGNORANT" 

He  plucked  from  his  coat  pocket  a  glittering  necklace  of 
diamonds  and  held  them  in  front  of  her  eyes.  The  woman  fell 
back  with  a  sharp  intaking  of  breath,  and  her  hands  went  up  to 
her  heart.    Her  lips  were  closed  in  a  thin,  straight  line. 

"Why  do  you  act  like  that?"  exclaimed  Mathieu.  "I  did 
not  steal  them.  I  came  by  them  honestly.  I  found  them,  I 
tell  you,  and  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  that." 

She  began  to  sway,  and  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  placed 
her  hand  against  the  door  to  steady  herself. 

"To-night,"  went  on  Mathieu  rapidly,  "I  had  my  hack  near 
the  great  house  where  the  ball  of  the  Minister  of  Instruction 
was  held.  They  came  out  rather  early,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
and  even  then  I  marked  the  necklace  glitter  on  her  neck,  and 
I  envied  them  their  riches.  I  drove  them  to  their  home,  and 
then  I  drove  back  here  to  my  stable.  I  unharnessed  the  horse. 
Then  I  took  the  robes  out  of  the  hack,  and  Was  about  to  walk 
home  when  the  light  from  my  lantern  glistened  on  the  jewels 
lying  on  the  ground.  They  must  have  fallen  from  the  lady's 
neck  and  slid  out  of  sight  in  the  folds  of  the  robe.  Ah,  they 
are  beauties,  Marie.  Once  I  saw  a  necklace  that  cost  five 
thousand  francs  and  it  was  not  half  so  fine." 

He  would  have  talked  on,  but  he  noticed  that  his  wife  was 
as  pale  as  death  and  that  her  breath  was  coming  and  going 
in  short,  quick  gasps. 

"You  are  ill,"  he  cried.  "This  good  news  has  been  too 
much  for  you.  I  myself  can  hardly  believe  that  it  is  true. 
But  to-morrow  you  shall  see.  I  will  come  back  from  the 
jeweler,  Descartes,  with  a  roll  of  banknotes  as  round  as  my 
fist." 

"Descartes!"  she  burst  out. 

"Ah,"  said  Mathieu,  "now  I  know.  It  is  your  silly  scruples. 
Pooh!  Why  should  I  not  sell  the  jewels?  They  were  rich  and 
can  stand  the  loss,  while  we  are  poor  and  the  money  means 
happiness  to  us.     You  are  far  too  honest,  Marie.     Come,  now, 


ERNEST  L.  MEYER  139 

I  will  help  you  to  your  room  and  you  shall  rest,  but  I  am  too 
happy  to  sleep  to-night.  I  will  go  out  and  celebrate  our  good 
fortune,  and  to-morrow  when  you  are  well  again  we  will  go 
together  and  buy  many  wonderful  things." 

He  was  so  blinded  by  his  own  great  joy  that  he  failed  to  see 
the  anguish  in  her  face.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  helped 
her  into  the  bedroom.  A  moment  later  he  came  back,  put  on 
his  best  cloak  and  hat,  and  left  the  house.  Proceeding  rapidly 
up  the  dark  street,  he  soon  emerged  into  the  boulevard  that 
glittered  with  life  and  light.  Mathieu  had  with  him  twenty 
francs,  taken  from  his  slender  hoard  at  home.  In  a  snug 
cafe  he  found  convivial  companions,  excellent  wine,  and  good 
music.     There  he  talked  and  sang  in  high  good  humor. 

In  the  early  morning  he  walked  in  the  park  for  an  hour  to 
clear  his  head,  and  at  the  time  when  the  shops  were  beginning 
to  open  he  retraced  his  course.  Soon  he  passed  a  window 
that  fairly  burned  with  magnificent  jewels. 

"Ah,"  thought  Mathieu,  "this  man  may  give  me  a  better 
price  than  my  neighbor,  Descartes." 

He  entered  the  shop  after  a  moment's  hesitation  and  walked 
boldly  up  to  a  little  man  with  sharp  eyes  who  was  arranging 
things  in  one  of  the  showcases. 

"Good  morning,  monsieur,"  said  Mathieu.  "Could  I  trouble 
you  to  put  a  value  upon  something  I  have  here?" 

He  took  the  necklace  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  the 
jeweler.     The  latter  glanced  at  him  shrewdly. 

"I  have  had  good  luck,"  said  Mathieu  easily.  "A  legacy 
left  me  by  an  uncle  in  Toulouse." 

The  little  man  took  the  necklace  to  his  work  table,  clapped 
a  glass  to  his  right  eye  and  peered  intently.  Then  he  came  back 
and  said  shortly:   "Paste." 

"Paste!"  echoed  Mathieu,  thunderstruck. 

"Yes,  monsieur.  Worth,  I  should  say,  about  twenty  francs. 
It  is  a  clever  imitation,  and  good  enough  tc  fool  the  ignorant." 


140  "TO  FOOL  THE  IGNORANT" 

Mathieu  took  back  the  necklace  and  stumbled  out  of  the 
shop,  cursing  to  himself.  The  bottom  had  dropped  out  of 
plans  which  he  had  carefully  made  that  morning  in  the  cafe. 
But  Mathieu  was  a  man  of  elastic  spirits,  and  it  was  not  his 
nature  to  remain  despondent.  Ten  minutes  later  he  was  back 
on  the  Rue  St.  Antoine  with  the  old  smile  on  his  lips. 

"This  is  a  rare  joke,"  thought  he.  "  'Good  enough  to  fool 
the  ignorant,'  the  old  curmudgeon  said.  Well,  well,  I  had 
a  fine  night  of  it,  at  least.  It  is  not  so  bad  after  all,  for  did  he 
not  say  it  was  worth  twenty  francs  —  just  the  amount  I  drank 
up.  Hm,  I  might  as  well  sell  it  now  and  get  rid  of  the  cursed 
thing." 

He  walked  briskly  down  the  street  and  turned  into  the  shop 
kept  by  M.  Descartes.  The  jeweler  was  a  short,  stout  man 
with  red,  puffy  cheeks  and  shifting  eyes.  Some  of  the  color 
seemed  to  leave  his  face  when  Mathieu  entered,  and  the  hand 
resting  on  the  glass  case  trembled  a  little. 

"  Good  morning,  M.  Le  Farge,"  he  croaked  in  his  hoarse  voice. 
"It  has  been  long  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  replied  Mathieu,  "it  is  not  every  day  that 
I  can  come  to  you  on  a  matter  of  business." 

"Business?"  repeated  Descartes,  starting. 

"In  short,"  went  on  Mathieu,  "what  will  you  pay  me  for 
this?"  He  took  the  necklace  from  his  pocket  and  tossed  it 
on  the  counter.  Descartes  turned  white  and  then  red  again, 
and  his  beady  eyes  seemed  to  look  in  every  direction  at  once. 
"Devil  take  the  man,"  thought  Mathieu.  "He,  too,  thinks 
I  stole  the  baubles."  He  repeated  the  fib  about  the  uncle 
in  Toulouse.  Descartes's  eyes  rested  on  his  face  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  laughed  nervously. 

"A  legacy,  eh?  Ha,  ha.  Excellent,  M.  Le  Farge.  I  com- 
prehend you  now,  yes,  yes.  Will  you  be  satisfied  with  —  let 
us  say  —  a  hundred  francs?  Come,  now,  that  is  quite  reason- 
able for  these  glass  beads,  M.  Le  Farge." 


ERNEST  L.  MEYER  141 

"Hm,"  muttered  Mathieu.  "The  man  must  be  mad.  Bui, 
surely,  he  ought  to  know  his  business  —  Yes,  that  is  quite  satis- 
factory," he  said  aloud,  and  added  jestingly:  "True,  they  are 
glass,  but  a  clever  imitation,  I  have  been  told.  Good  enough  to 
fool  the  ignorant,  eh,  monsieur?" 

"Quite  right,  quite  right,"  croaked  the  jeweler.  "You  are 
a  man  after  my  own  heart.  Perhaps,  who  knows,  you  may  have 
other  things  to  sell  soon?  But  remember,  monsieur,  that  I 
am  a  poor  man.  I  can  pay  well,  but  I  will  not  be  bled."  He 
leered  into  Mathieu's  face  while  he  counted  out  the  money  and 
his  eyes  gleamed  evilly. 

Mathieu  made  haste  to  get  out  of  the  shop  after  pocketing 
the  coins.  "An  odd  fish,"  he  ruminated.  "Mad  —  or  only 
drunk,  perhaps.     At  any  rate,  he  pays  well." 

He  walked  rapidly  down  the  street  and  in  a  few  moments  was 
back  in  the  little  kitchen  of  his  home.  The  lamp  and  the  food 
were  still  on  the  table,  but  his  wife  was  not  in  the  room.  He 
stepped  quietly  across  the  floor  and  listened  at  the  door  of  her 
chamber. 

"Still  asleep,"  he  muttered.  "Poor  Marie,  how  disappointed 
she  will  be.  But  still  —  a  hundred  francs  is  not  to  be  sneezed 
at." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  for  he  was  half  famished.  He  had 
scarcely  picked  up  his  knife  when  his  eyes  fell  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
that  was  lying  near  the  lamp.  He  picked  it  up  and  read, 
and  as  he  read  his  eyes  widened  with  horror. 

"Mathieu,"  read  the  note,  "it  was  cruel  of  you. 
I  wish  to  God  that  you  had  killed  me  outright.  I  feared, 
the  moment  you  called  me,  that  you  had  found  out  my 
affair  with  Descartes;  and  when  you  showed  me  the 
necklace  and  mentioned  his  name,  I  knew  that  you  lied 
and  jested  to  torture  me.  That  necklace  —  I  lost  the 
very  day  he  gave  it  to  me  and  have  spent  hours  and 
hours  searching  for  it.    Ah,  Mathieu,  had  I  not  been 


142  "TO   FOOL    THE   IGNORANT" 

such  a  vain  woman,  and  you  such  a  blind  man,  his  bribes 

and  promises  would  have  meant  nothing.     Forgive  me, 

if  you  can,  and  pray  for  my  soul." 

With  a  terrible  cry  of  rage  and  grief,  Mathieu  rose  from 

his  chair  and  almost  flung  himself  against  the  bedroom  door. 

The  room  was  darkened.    He  pushed  wide  open  the  shutters 

and  turned  quickly  about.    His  wife  was  lying  in  bed;    her 

sightless  eyes  turned  to  the  ceiling.    On  a  table  near  the  bed 

lay  a  little  heap  of  gaudy  jewels  and  rings  and  bracelets.     The 

air  was  heavy  with  the  odor  of  prussic  acid. 


XI:  WELLINGTON1 

Charles  Macomb  Flandreau 

[Do  you  think  that  the  initial  suggestion,  from  which  this  story  was  de- 
veloped, lay  in  the  peculiar  facts  brought  out  at  the  end,  or  did  it  lie  in  the  general 
idea  of  the  death  of  a  lonely  student  in  a  big  university?  The  pathos  of  the 
situation  of  a  lonely,  friendless  student  in  a  big  university  is  the  commonplace  idea 
which  is  rendered  striking  by  the  introduction  of  one  peculiar  circumstance.  Notice 
that  all  that  is  most  peculiar  in  this  circumstance  is  imbedded  in  the  closest 
observation  of  daily  college  life.] 

"If  I'd  only  known  sooner  that  you  were  coming,  I  could 
have  asked  some  of  the  fellows  round  to  meet  you,"  said 
Haydock,  politely.  No  matter  how  well  you  may  know  a 
woman,  you  are  always  apprehensive  when  she  comes  to 
Cambridge  that  she  has  a  thirst  for  tea. 

"I  think  I  like  this  better,"  his  mother  answered,  stopping 
to  look  back.  She  was  a  lady  of  excellent  taste,  yet  almost 
anyone  must  have  preferred  the  Yard  that  Sunday  afternoon. 
The  riotous  new  green  of  early  spring  had  matured  to  an 
academic  sombreness  that  made  the  elms,  the  stretches  of 
sun-flecked  grass,  the  tremulous  ivy,  and  the  simple  brick 
buildings  inseparable  in  one's  thoughts.  The  dignity  of  the 
great  space  between  Grays  and  Holworthy  had  grown  with 
the  late  afternoon  shadows,  and  Haydock  and  his  mother, 
who  had  sauntered  from  path  to  path,  listening  to  the  leaves, 
and  the  robins,  and  the  quiet  confidences  of  the  wise  bricks, 
talked  of  Harvard.  Although  the  place  was  large  and  deserted 
at  this  hour,  it  was  far  from  lonely. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  like  this  much  better,"  mused  Mrs.  Haydock 
again.     Philip  looked  pleased. 

1  Reprinted  from  Haroard  Episodes  with  the  kind  permission  of  Small,  Maynard 
and  Company,  and  of  the  author. 


144  WELLINGTON 

"It's  always  beautiful,"  he  said;  "and  there's  so  much  else," 
he  added  rather  obscurely.  But  his  mother  seemed  to  know,  for 
she  looked  at  him  after  a  moment  and  answered: 

"I  often  wonder  if  all  women  can  understand  it,  —  the  other 
things,  not  just  the  beauty,  —  or  if  it 's  only  women  with  sons 
and  brothers  who  come  here." 

"Especially  sons,"  smiled  Philip,  taking  her  hand  and  swing- 
ing it  to  and  fro,  as  they  strolled  back  again  toward  Holworthy. 

"But  I  never  shall  find  out  for  sure,"  went  on  Mrs.  Haydock; 
"because  even  the  ones  who  do  feel  the  place,  just  as  if  they 
had  been  here  themselves,  can't  express  it." 

"It's  so  dreadful  to  try,"  said  Philip.  Then  after  a  moment, 
"I  was  thinking  of  all  the  horrible  Class  Poems  and  Odes  and 
Baccalaureate  Sermons  and  ghastly  Memorial  Day  orators  that 
are  allowed  to  go  on." 

"Oh,  they  probably  don't  do  any  harm,"  Mrs.  Haydock 
interceded  mildly. 

"No,  not  positive  harm,"  her  son  admitted;  "but  neither 
would  a  lot  of  hurdy-gurdies  in  Appleton  Chapel."  Once  in  a 
while  Haydock  was  somewhat  extreme.  Just  now  his  mother 
took  occasion  to  remark  on  that  fact. 

"No,  really,  I  don't  think  I  am,"  Philip  protested.  "What 
can  they  add  to  our  feeling  for  Harvard  with  their  trite  mouth- 
ings  about  Veritas  and  Memorial  Hall?  Other  places  may  need 
that  sort  of  thing;  this  one  doesn't.  Most  of  us  here  recognise 
that  fact,  and  conduct  ourselves  accordingly.  And  outsiders 
misunderstand  the  attitude;  Eleanor,  for  example."  Eleanor 
was  a  cousin  with  Yale  affinities.  "I  had  to  snub  Eleanor 
once  for  saying,  before  a  lot  of  people,  that  whenever  she  wanted 
to  flatter  a  Harvard  man,  she  told  him  he  was  blase,  and,  if 
that  didn't  work,  she  called  him  a  cynic,  and  if  even  that  wouldn't 
bring  him  round,  she  hinted  that  he  didn't  believe  in  God." 

"Eleanor  is  a  very  clever,  silly  little  girl,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Haydock. 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  145 

1 

"Eleanor  is  excessively  cheap  at  times,"  corrected  Philip. 
"We're  not  'cynical,'  and  we're  not  'blase,'  and  whether  or 
not  we  believe  in  God  is  nobody's  business.  If  we  don't  drool 
about  the  things  here  we  care  for  very  much  it's  because  people 
who  do  are  indecent;   they  bore  us." 

"They  do  bore  one,"  assented  Mrs.  Haydock. 

"Once  in  a  while  some  one  does  tear  out  his  heart  and  drips  it 
around  the  stage  in  Sanders  Theatre  for  the  benefit  of  all  the 
tiresome  old  women  in  Cambridge,  and  the  Glee  Club  drones 
Latin  hymns  to  a  shiny  upright  piano  hired  for  the  occasion, 
while  the  orator  calms  himself  with  ice-water  from  the  bedroom 
pitcher  that  is  always  prominent  on  those  occasions.  But  such 
performances,  thank  God,  are  rare." 

"Why  do  you  go  to  them?"  asked  Mrs.  Haydock. 

"I  don't,"  said  Philip.  "That  was  when  I  was  a  freshman, 
and  didn't  know  any  better.  Since  then  I  have  acquired 
'Harvard  indifference,'  "  he  added,  smiling  to  himself.  They 
left  the  Yard,  lingering  a  moment  for  another  look  down  the 
leafy  vista,  and  walked  slowly  across  to  Memorial. 

The  beautiful  transept  was  dark  at  first,  after  the  sunlight 
outside.  Then  it  lifted  straight  and  high  from  the  cool  dusk 
into  the  quiet  light  of  the  stained  windows.  Except  for  the 
faint  echo  of  their  footsteps  along  the  marble  floor,  the  two 
moved  from  tablet  to  tablet  in  silence.  Somewhere  near  the 
south  door  they  stopped,  and  Philip  said  simply: 

"This  one  is  Shaw's." 

When  they  passed  on  and  out,  and  sat  in  the  shade  on  the 
steps,  Haydock's  mother  wiped  her  eyes.  The  long,  silent 
roll-call  always  made  her  do  that. 

"It  was  a  great,  great  price  to  pay,"  she  said  at  last. 

"I  never  knew  how  great,"  said  Philip,  "until  I  came  here 
one  day  and  tried  to  live  it  all  over,  as  if  it  were  happening 
now.  Before  then  the  war  seemed  fine,  and  historic,  and  all 
that,  but  ever  so  far  away.    It's  been  real  since  then.    I  thought 


146  WELLINGTON 

i 

of  how  all  the  little  groups  of  fellows  would  talk  about  it  in  the 
Yard  between  lectures,  and  read  the  morning  papers  while  the 
lectures  were  going  on;  and  how  the  instructors  would  hate  to 
have  to  tell  them  not  to.  And  I  thought  what  it  would  be  like 
to  have  the  men  I  know  —  Alfred  and  Peter  Bradley,  and 
Sears  Wolcott  and  Douglas  and  Billy  and  Pat,  and  all  of  them, 
getting  restless  and  excited,  and  sitting  up  all  night  at  the 
club,  and  then  throwing  down  their  books  and  marching  away 
to  the  front  to  be  shot;  and  how  I  would  have  to  go  along  too, 
because  —  well,  you  couldn  't  stay  at  home  while  they  were 
being  shot  every  day,  and  thrown  into  trenches.  I  don't  think 
you  ever  realise  it  very  much  until  you  think  about  it  that  way." 

"It  seems,  now,  so  terrible  that  they  had  to  go,"  Philip's 
mother  broke  in  earnestly;  "such  a  cruel  stamping  out  of  youth 
and  strength  and  happiness  at  the  very  beginning." 

"But  it  isn't  as  if  you  felt  it  were  all  a  hideous  waste.  It 
did  something  great;  it's  doing  something  now.  It  can  never 
stop,"  Philip  added,  gently;  "for  every  year  the  new  ones 
come,  —  the  ones  who  don 't  know  yet.  It's  the  fellows  who 
die  here  at  college  who  always  seem  to  me  so  thrown  away, 
so  wasted,"  he  went  on.  "They  don't  seem  to  get  their  show, 
somehow,  —  like  Wellington,  for  instance." 

"Did  I  meet  Wellington?"  asked  Mrs.  Haydock,  trying  to 
attach  a  personality  to  the  name.  She  usually  remembered 
Philip's  friends. 

"Heavens,  no!"  answered  Philip.  "Nobody  knew  Welling- 
ton, except  a  few  of  us,  —  after  he  got  pneumonia  and  died, 
which  he  did  last  February.  He  was  in  our  class,  and  he  must 
have  been  a  nice  fellow;  his  mother  was  very  nice.  But  I'd 
never  heard  of  him.  It  had  just  happened  that  way,  —  the 
way  it  does  here." 

"Where  did  you  know  his  mother?"  asked  Mrs.  Haydock. 

"Why,  I  thought  I'd  written  you  all  that.  It  must  have 
been  too  long,  or  too  dreary,  or  something,"  said  Philip. 


CHARLES   MACOMB   FLANDREAU  147 

"No,  you  never  told  me." 

"Well,  the  first  thing  that  I  knew  about  Hugh  Wellington 
was  that  he  came  from  Chicago,  or  Cleveland,  or  some  place; 
that  'his  pleasant  disposition  was  appreciated  by  all  who  knew 
him';  and  that,  incidentally,  he  was  dead.  I  read  that  in 
the  'Crimson'  one  morning  in  bed,  and  I  knew  exactly  what 
it  meant;  because  when  the 'Crimson'  is  reduced  to  the  'pleasant 
disposition'  stage,  there's  a  good  reason  why." 

Mrs.  Haydock  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"I  mean,  they  can't  find  out  anything;  there's  nothing  to 
find  out.  He  went  his  way  quietly,  —  decently,  I  suppose,  — 
without  knowing  any  one  in  particular.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
him,  not  even  well  enough  to  say  that  his  disposition  wasn't 
pleasant;  so  the  'Crimson'  gave  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

"It's  the  least  it  could  do  for  any  dead  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Haydock. 

"And  the  most  that  could  be  done  for  poor  Wellington, 
I  suppose,"  added  Philip,  thoughtfully.  "After  that,  I  didn't 
think  of  him  again  —  you  don't,  you  know;  among  so  many 
it 's  bound  to  happen  pretty  often  —  until  somebody  asked 
who  he  was,  at  luncheon.  There  were  ten  of  us  at  the  table, 
and  Billy  Fields  was  the  only  one  who  knew  anything  about 
him.  He  said  that  he  sat  next  to  a  man  named  H.  Wellington 
in  some  big  history  course,  and  liked  the  clothes  he  wore.  I 
think  he  and  Billy  used  to  nod  to  each  other  in  the  Yard.  Well, 
in  the  natural  course  of  events,  that  would  have  been  the  end 
of  him,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  if  Nate  Lawrence  —  he's 
the  president  of  the  class  —  hadn't  dashed  round  to  my  room 
that  afternoon  to  ask  me  what  he'd  better  do.  Nate's  a  bully 
chap,  —  a  great,  big  clean  sort  of  a  child  who  breathes  hard 
whenever  he  has  to  think  of  anything.  He  always  wants  to 
do  the  proper  thing  by  the  class  and  the  college,  and  we  help 
him  out  a  good  deal  with  resolutions  and  committees  and 
impromptu  speeches  for  athlete  dinners,   and  all  that.    He 


148  WELLINGTON 

wanted  me  to  sit  right  down  and  help  him  draw  up  some  reso- 
lutions of  sympathy  and  'get  it  over  with,'  he  said.  After 
that  he  could  call  a  class  meeting,  to  which  no  one  would  come 
of  course,  and  send  the  thing  home  immediately.  I  couldn't 
see  any  particular  necessity  for  rushing  the  matter,  except  that 
Nate  had  it  very  much  on  his  mind.  It  wasn't  as  if  the  man 
were  alive  and  might  die  at  any  moment.  So  I  told  him  he'd 
better  wait  awhile,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  anything  about 
Wellington  in  the  first  place.  He  said,  why,  yes,  of  course  — 
he  remembered  the  name  quite  distinctly;  Wellington  had  come 
out  for  the  football  in  October,  but  had  hurt  his  knee  —  no, 
come  to  think  of  it,  it  might  have  been  his  collar-bone  —  and 
had  dropped  out  pretty  soon.  He  was  either  the  tall  lad  with 
the  shoulders,  or  that  wiry  little  man  who  might  have  made 
a  good  quarter-back  if  he'd  stayed  on.  You  see,  Wellington 
must  have  been  a  mighty  quiet  sort  of  fellow,  because  Nate 
is  a  tremendously  conscientious  president.  He  can  tell  almost 
everybody  apart. 

"I  said,  'You  simply  have  to  get  more  details,  if  you  want  me 
to  write  the  letter.'  I'm  pretty  good  at  that  kind  of  thing,  but 
I  like  to  have  something  to  go  by,  naturally;  it  makes  them  easier 
—  more  spontaneous.  Nate  had  been  up  to  the  Office ;  but 
I  didn't  find  anything  very  available  in  what  he's  got  there, 
so  we  looked  up  Wellington's  address  in  the  Index,  and  went 
round  to  his  room  that  afternoon.  He  lived  in  a  little  house 
on  Kirkland  Street. 

"It  was  a  perfectly  fiendish  day;  you've  never  been  here  in 
February,  have  you?  Well,  that's  the  time  to  see  dear  old 
Cambridge.  It  snows  and  rains  most  of  the  day,  and  then 
stops  to  rest  and  melt  a  little.  There  aren't  any  sidewalks 
to  speak  of  —  just  dirt  paths  with  curbstones  that  keep  the 
mud  and  stuff  from  running  off  into  the  street,  so  you  have  to 
walk  in  it  up  to  your  neck,  if  you  want  to  get  anywhere.  That's 
what  did  Wellington  up,  I  guess. 


CHARLES  MACOMB  FLANDREAU  149 

"The  front  door  of  his  house  was  latched,  and  I  was  fumbling 
round  under  the  crape  trying  to  get  hold  of  the  bell,  when  the 
landlady  appeared ;  you  know  —  it  makes  me  shudder  now 
sometimes,  when  I  think  of  that  gruesome  old  buzzard  of  a 
woman.  She  was  a  typical  Cambridge  landlady,  —  one  of 
those  uncorseted,  iron  grey  slatterns  who  lives  in  a  rancid 
atmosphere  of  hot  soap-suds  and  never  goes  to  bed;  a  room- 
renting  old  spider  who  manages  to  break  everything  you  own, 
in  a  listless  sort  of  way,  and  then  writes  home  to  your  father 
that  you  haven't  paid  your  bill.  This  one  belonged  to  the 
class  that  looks  on  death  as  a  social  opportunity.  She  was 
dressed  for  the  occasion,  and  greeted  each  of  us  with  a  kind 
of  a  soiled  smile  that  made  her  old  face  look  like  a  piece  of 
dishrag." 

"Philip  dear." 

"Well,  it  did.  And  then  she  said  in  a  loud,  important 
whisper: 

"  'He  isn't  upstairs;  he's  in  my  parlor,'  and  took  us  in 
where  poor  Wellington  was.  It  was  all  so  dreadful,  that  part 
of  it,  that  it  didn't  seem  sad.  There  were  three  other  bleary 
old  funeral  coaches,  —  more  landladies,  I  suppose,  —  on  a 
sofa  on  one  side,  and  a  girl  with  fuzzy,  yellow,  hair,  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  on  the  other;  she  was  Mrs.  Finley's  daughter,  I  think. 
I've  seen  her  round  the  Square  since.  There  didn't  seem  to  be 
much  of  anything  for  us  to  do;  and  Nate  was  awfully  embar- 
rassed and  uncomfortable,  and  seemed  to  fill  up  most  of  the 
space  in  the  horrid  plushy  little  room.  But  I  didn't  like  to 
go  away  exactly,  because  it  made  our  coming  there  at  all  seem 
so  useless;  so  I  said  to  Mrs.  Finley,  —  I  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing else,  — 

"  'Have  many  of  the  fellows  been  in?' 

"  'No,'  she  whispered;  'nobody's  been  in  but  Mis'  Taylor 
and  Mis'  Buckson  and  Mis'  Myles.  They  come  at  two,'  — 
it  was  then  after  five,  —  'and  the  Regent.     Mr.  Wellington 


150  WELLINGTON 

was  a  real  quiet  young  man.  He  didn't  have  much  com- 
pany. He  stayed  in  his  room  nights  —  mostly.'  She  stuck  on 
'mostly'  as  a  sort  of  afterthought,  and  repeated  it;  the  old 
fool  had  a  passion  for  accuracy  of  a  vague,  unimportant  kind 
that  almost  drove  me  crazy.  I  asked  her  if  anyone  else  roomed 
in  the  house.  I  knew  he  must  have  known  them  if  there  did ; 
no  matter  how  objectionable  people  are  at  college,  if  they  room 
near  you,  you  can't  help  borrowing  matches  from  them  — 
I've  made  lots  of  acquaintances  borrowing  matches.  But  no 
one  lived  there  except  two  law  students,  'real  nice  gentlemen, 
real  nice,'  they  were,  and  they  weren't  there  very  much.  Nate 
asked  her  when  the  funeral  was  to  be,  which  was  the  most  sen- 
sible thing  he  could  have  done;  for  she  took  a  telegram  from 
her  pocket,  and  said: 

"  'His  mother's  coming  to-night.  She  was  in  New  York 
State  when  he  passed  away.  They  wa'n't  able  to  get  her  till 
this  afternoon.'  Then  Nate  and  I  left  her,  and  I  don't  know 
why,  —  it  wasn  't  idle  curiosity,  —  but  we  went  up  to  Wel- 
lington's rooms. 

"They  were  bully  rooms.  You  can  tell  a  lot  about  a  man 
from  his  room  here.  Wellington  had  no  end  of  really  good 
things:  rugs  and  books,  —  the  Edinburgh  Stevenson,  and  that 
edition  of  Balzac  we  have  at  home,  —  and  ever  so  many  Braun 
photographs  —  not  the  everyday  ones,  but  portraits  and  things 
that  you  felt  he'd  picked  up  abroad,  because  he  happened  to 
like  them.  And  on  the  table  —  he  had  a  corking  big  oak 
table  that  filled  up  one  end  of  the  room  —  his  note-books  and 
scratch  block  were  lying  open,  just  the  way  he'd  left  them  when 
he  stopped  grinding  for  the  exams.  And  there  was  a  letter 
without  a  stamp,  addressed  to  his  mother,  and  a  little  picture 
of  his  mother,  with  'For  Hugo'  written  on  the  back.  Then 
I  got  to  thinking  of  his  mother,  and  got  her  mixed  up  with 
you  somehow  or  other.  I  don't  know  just  how  it  was,  but 
you  seemed  to  change  places;    I  couldn't  see  you  apart  for 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  151 

any  length  of  time,  and  I  thought  of  you  arriving  at  the  Park 
Square  station  all  alone,  and  trying  to  get  a  cab  in  the  wet, 
and  having  to  pay  the  man  anything  he  asked  you,  until  I  was 
almost  crying,  and  told  Nate  that  some  one  ought  to  be  there 
to  meet  you  —  Mrs.  Wellington,  I  mean.  Nate  agreed  with  me, 
and  began  to  look  panicky,  because  he  knew  I  meant  him. 
He  really  ought  to  have  gone  —  it  was  his  place.  But  I  knew 
how  he  felt.  He  kept  insisting  that  I  could  do  the  thing  much 
better  than  he  could;  and  it  ended  by  my  getting  a  carriage  at 
about  eight  or  nine  o'clock,  and  splashing  into  town. 

"There  was  a  possibility,  of  course,  that  she  wouldn't  come 
alone,  although  she  had  been  away  from  home,  in  New  York, 
when  he  heard.  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  miss 
her  if  she  did  come  alone,  although  J  'd  never  seen  her,  and  felt 
sure  she  wouldn't  have  on  black  veils  and  things.  You  can't 
imagine  all  the  different  things  I  thought  of  to  say  to  her  while 
I  was  walking  up  and  down  the  platform  waiting  for  the  train 
to  come  in.  They  all  sounded  so  formal  and  sort  of  undertakery, 
that  I  knew  I  shouldn't  say  any  of  them  when  the  time  came. 
But  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else  —  the  one  right  one, 
I  mean. 

"Well,  she  came  on  the  first  train  she  possibly  could  have 
come  on  after  sending  the  telegram,  and  I  knew  her  at  once. 
She  was  the  very  last  person  to  get  out  of  the  car.  It  wasn't 
that,  or  because  she  looked  different  —  anybody  else  would 
have  said  she  was  very,  very  tired;  but  I  just  knew  her,  and 
before  I  could  think  of  any  of  those  other  things,  I  took  her 
travelling-bag  and  said,  — 

"  'I'm  one  of  Hugh's  friends.' 

"I  didn't  see  her  when  I  said  it,  —  only  her  hands, — 
because  I  was  looking  down  at  the  bag."  Hay  dock  paused  a 
moment. 

"I  think  it  was  the  right  thing,  dear  —  the  only  one,"  said 
his  mother,  softly. 


152  WELLINGTON 

"It's  a  long,  long  drive  to  Cambridge,  even  if  you  know  where 
you  are  all  the  time.  But  with  the  windows  all  blurred,  and 
nothing  to  mark  the  way  except  the  rumble  of  the  bridge  or  the 
car-tracks,  or  some  bright  light  you  know  pretty  well,  that  tells 
you  you  haven't  gone  nearly  so  far  as  you  thought  you  had, 
it 's  terrible.  We  didn  't  say  anything  on  the  way.  She 
leaned  back  in  the  corner;  I  think  she  was  crying.  Mrs. 
Finley  —  the  landlady  —  heard  us  coming,  and  had  the  door 
open  wljen  we  got  out;  I  made  her  go  upstairs  with  me,  and  told 
her  not  to  dare  to  go  near  that  room  and  —  and  disturb  them. 
She 's  just  the  sort  of  a  woman  who  would.  It  was  almost  mid- 
night then,  and  I  sat  there  until  after  two.  I  tried  to  grind  for 
a  Fine  Arts'  examination  out  of  one  of  Wellington's  books  — 
he  must  have  been  taking  the  same  course  —  until  the  door 
downstairs  opened  and  closed,  and  I  heard  Mrs.  Wellington 
come  slowly  up  the  steps.  I  put  the  book  on  the  mantelpiece; 
it  seemed  heartless  to  be  reading  there  by  his  fire  when  she 
came  in. 

"  She  was  a  very  brave  woman,  I  think  —  brave  and  civilised. 
She  walked  slowly  round  the  room,  sort  of  touching  things  here 
and  there;  and  she  stopped  a  long  time  at  the  table,  and  put 
her  hand  on  the  note-books  gently,  as  if  she  were  stroking 
them,  and  then  closed  them." 

"Did  she  find  the  letter?"  asked  Mrs.  Haydock. 

"No,  I  gave  that  to  her  later  on  — I  had  it  in  my  pocket  then. 
I  didn't  want  her  to  find  it  herself;  it  always  makes  you  jump 
so  to  see  your  own  name  written  out,  when  you're  not  looking 
for  it.  Then  she  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  me  and  stared  at  the 
fire.  I  asked  her  if  she  wanted  me  to  go  away;  and  she  said,  no, 
she  was  glad  I  was  there.  We  talked  a  little  —  I  couldn  't 
say  much;  my  position  was  queer  you  know  —  not  what  she 
thought  it  was.  But  it  didn't  seem  wrong  as  long  as  I  stayed 
just  because  she  wanted  me  to,  and  I  hated  to  spoil  it  by  saying 
things  that  couldn't  ring  true.     She    talked  about  Hugh  in 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  153 

such  a  quiet,  wonderful  way  that  every  now  and  then  I  found 
myself  wondering  if  she  really  knew.  Sometimes  she  doubted 
it  herself,  I  think,  for  she  left  me  twice  and  went  slowly  down- 
stairs as  if  she  wanted  to  make  sure.  When  daylight  came, 
she  went  in  and  lay  down  on  his  bed.  I  put  out  the  lamps  and 
wrote  a  note  saying  where  my  room  was  if  she  wanted  to  send 
for  me. 

"At  breakfast  I  got  hold  of  Bradley  and  Sears  Wolcott  and 
Billy  and  four  or  five  other  fellows,  and  told  them  they  simply 
had  to  go  round  there  at  noon,  and  that  some  of  them  would  have 
to  go  into  the  station  with  me.  They  didn  't  see  any  particular 
reason  for  it  at  first;  most  of  them  were  grinding  for  the  exams, 
and  Sears  had  an  engagement  to  play  court  tennis  and  lunch 
at  the  B.  A.  A.  He  said  he  didn't  see  why  the  man's  friends 
weren't  enough  without  dragging  out  a  lot  of  heelers  who'd 
never  heard  of  him,  let  alone  never  having  met  him.  He 
wasn't  'going  to  be  any  damned  hired  crocodile!'  he  said. 
You  see,,  they  couldn't  understand  that  if  they  didn't  go, 
there  probably  wouldn't  be  anybody  there  but  the  preacher 
and  Mrs.  Finley,  and  those  horrible  men  with  the  black  satin 
ties  and  cotton  gloves  who  carry  you  in  and  out  when  there's 
no  one  else  round  to  do  it.  But  they  all  came  at  last  —  even 
Sears,  grumbling  till  he  got  inside  the  gate.  Nate  brought  three 
or  four  fellows  round  from  his  club,  and  an  armful  of  red  and 
white  roses  'from  the  class,'  he  told  Mrs.  Wellington.  It  was 
a  nice  little  lie.  I  was  surprised  that  Natey  thought  of  it. 
The  Regent  came,  and  Mr.  Barrows,  the  college  secretary, 
and  poor  old  Miss  Shedd,  Wellington's  washwoman.  She  was 
awfully  cut  up,  poor  old  thing,  and  made  it  as  bad  as  possible 
for  everybody.  That  was  about  all,  I  think.  Plummer,  the 
college  preacher,  was  simple  and  manly;  Heaven  knows  he 
couldn't  very  well  have  been  anything  else  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. And  then  we  had  that  interminable  drive  again, 
back  to  Boston. 


154  WELLINGTON 

"I  was  in  the  carriage  with  Mrs.  Wellington.  Any  of  us 
could  have  gone  with  her  just  as  well,  I  suppose,  because  we  were 
all  Hugh's  friends,  although  I  was  the  only  one  who  knew  that 
we  were.  But  I  wanted  to  ride  with  her  somehow,  and  I'm 
glad  now  that  I  did,  for  a  very  queer  thing  happened;  I've 
never  quite  understood  it.  She  didn't  say  anything  for  ever 
so  long,  not  until  we  got  across  the  bridge  and  the  carriage  began 
to  go  slower.    Then  she  put  one  of  her  hands  on  mine  and  said : 

"  'I  didn't  know  at  first  that  you  were  Haydock,  not  until 
I  found  your  note.  I'm  very,  very  glad  to  know,  because 
Hugh  used  to  talk  more  about  you  in  his  letters  and  when  he 
was  at  home  than  he  did  about  any  of  the  others.  I  think  he 
looked  up  to  you  most  of  all,'  and  she  told  me  some  of  the 
things  he  had  said  and  written." 

Haydock  often  wondered  if  repeating  things  to  your  mother 
that  you  wouldn  't  repeat  to  anyone  else,  made  up  for  the  things 
you  couldn  't  tell  her  at  all.     This  passed  through  his  mind  now. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  just  as  well  I  never  met  Wellington,"  he 
added.  "Well,  there  wasn't  much  else.  WTien  we  got  to  the 
station,  I  left  Nate  and  the  others  to  attend  to  things,  and  went 
into  the  car  with  Mrs.  Wellington.  She  had  the  stateroom,  — 
I'd  got  that  for  her  when  I  went  in  town  in  the  morning,  — 
and  there  wasn't  anything  to  do  but  give  her  her  ticket,  and 
say  good-bye.  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  I  ought  to  go  on  with  her  and 
see  the  thing  through ;  but  I  'd  cut  one  examination  already  — 
I  managed  to  flunk  two  more  —  and  she  probably  wouldn 't 
have  let  me  anyhow.  I  did  hunt  up  the  conductor  and  give 
him  the  other  ticket,  —  you  have  to  have  two,  you  know,  — 
and  told  him  to  take  care  of  it,  and  not  let  her  see  it;  it  had  a 
grisly  word  scribbled  across  it.  She  smiled  when  she  said  good- 
bye —  oh,  so  sadly." 

Haydock  stood  up  and  stretched  himself. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  from  her  again?"  asked  Mrs.  Haydock. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  had  a  letter  very  soon.    I  had  all  his  books  and 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  155 

furniture  and  stuff  packed  up  and  sent  home,  you  know.  She 
told  me  to  keep  anything  I  wanted,  because  —  oh,  I  '11  show 
you  the  letter  some  day.  I  kept  the  picture  with  'For  Hugo' 
written  on  the  back.  It's  over  in  my  room."  He  went  down 
the  steps,  Mrs.  Haydock  following.  They  walked  along  the 
Delta,  past  John  Harvard,  and  across  to  one  of  the  paths  in 
the  Yard  once  more,  sprinkled  now  with  men  hurrying  to 
Memorial. 

"It  was  such  a  queer  waste,  his  having  lived  and  come  here 
at  all,"  mused  Philip.  "I  suppose  that  sounds  awfully  kiddish 
and  tiresome  to  you,  doesn't  it?"  he  asked  more  lightly,  looking 
at  his  mother. 

"No,"  she  answered;  "it  sounded  very  old  the  way  you 
said  it." 


XII.  LEFT  BEHIND1 
Arthur  Ruhl 

Everybody  in  the  house  —  in  all  the  world  it  seemed  — 
was  sleeping,  but  the  Vandalia  Miler  sat  up  in  bed,  staring 
with  dry,  wide-open  eyes  at  the  wall.  The  dormer  room, 
tucked  up  under  the  roof,  was  stuffy  and  close  and  smelled  of 
heat  and  wall-paper  and  rag-carpet.  Through  the  little  win- 
dow, from  the  trees  and  grass  outside,  came  the  steady  whirring 
of  the  tree-toads  and  crickets.  Suddenly  the  stillness  was 
broken  and  the  campus  clock  tolled  two.  As  the  harsh  note 
grated  on  his  nerves  his  heart  gave  a  thump  and  he  threw 
himself  back  and  buried  his  face  in  the  hot  pillow.  It  seemed 
as  though  he  must  shut  out  the  world  and  forget.  But  he 
couldn't  forget,  and  you  can  shut  out  the  world  with  a  pillow  — 
only  so  long  as  you  can  hold  your  breath.  He  slipped  over  the 
edge  of  the  bed  —  that  ridiculous,  high,  hot  feather-bed  —  and 
with  his  chin  in  his  hands  and  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  blinked 
at  the  little  windows  and  the  patch  of  moonlight  on  the  floor 
where  the  Other  Man  lay  sleeping.  And  as  he  watched  him, 
snoring  there  comfortably  in  his  sleep,  his  own  secret  returned 
again  and  bit  into  him,  as  it  had  returned  so  many  times  that 
day  and  night,  and  all  the  disappointment  and  bitterness  and 
despair  of  it.  And  he  felt  that  life  had  tricked  him,  cut  him 
off  in  the  flower  of  his  youth  and  put  him  on  the  outside,  and  he 
was  an  outcast  with  his  hand  raised  against  the  world. 

When  they  had  arrived  that  night,  with  a  lot  of  the  other 
teams  that  had  come  down  for  the  interscholastics,  and  had 
been  assigned  to  that  one  remaining  vacant  room,  the  Other 

1  Reprinted  from  Break  in  Training  and  Other  Athletic  Stories,  with  the  kind 
permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  Outing  Publishing  Company. 


ARTHUR  RUHL  157 

Man  had  told  him  to  go  ahead  and  take  the  bed,  because,  as  he 
explained,  a  miler  needed  all  the  sleep  he  could  get,  whereas 
a  bit  of  wakefulness  the  night  before  the  games  only  served  to 
put  an  edge  on  the  sprinter's  nerves.  "It'll  make  me  start 
quicker,"  said  he,  spreading  a  blanket  on  the  floor.  That 
was  just  like  the  luck  of  the  Other  Man  —  to  give  up  something 
and  after  all  to  get  it  back  again.  And  the  Vandalia  Miler 
blinked  at  him,  and  thought  and  thought,  and  wondered  whether 
the  Other  Man  would  make  the  'varsity  in  his  freshman  year. 
For  the  Other  Man  was  going  away  to  college  and  the  Vandalia 
Miler  couldn't  go.  That  was  his  secret,  which  had  been  his 
for  only  a  day,  and  which  he  was  somehow  too  proud  to  tell. 
That  was  why  he  believed  that  he  was  an  outcast,  a  pariah  — 
why  a  shivery  abyss  yawned  between  these  two  old  friends, 
though  you  might  have  thought  that  it  was  but  a  yard  or  two 
of  rag  carpet  that  separated  him,  sitting  there  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  from  the  Other  Man,  sleeping  in  his  blanket  on  the  floor. 
They  had  grown  up  in  Vandalia,  in  that  little  prairie  town, 
from  the  beginning;  gone  swimming  together  and  skated  and 
rung  door-bells,  gone  through  the  grammar-school  and  into 
the  high-school,  and  then,  when  most  of  the  town  boys  were 
dropping  out  to  go  to  work  and  the  ones  who  were  going  to  col- 
lege went  away  to  prep,  school  they  had  decided  to  stick  by 
the  ship.  They  would  stick  by  their  town  as  long  as  they  could, 
but  when  they  had  to  leave  they  were  going,  not  to  one  of  the 
State  universities,  not  to  Chicago,  but  down  into  the  distant 
and  glittering  East.  One  didn't  go  down  East  to  college  from 
the  Vandalia  High-School.  They  were  about  the  only  men 
left  in  the  class  after  their  sophomore  year;  the  rest  were  girls 
—  the  girls  they  had  grown  up  with  and  written  notes  to  and 
divided  their  apples  and  candy  with,  back  in  the  kid  days. 
Once  there  had  been  a  cane-rush  —  somebody  had  read  about 
one  in  a  book  —  and  two  legs  and  an  arm  were  broken  and  one 
boy  nearly  killed.     The  girls  were  ordered  to  keep  out.    They 


158  LEFT  BEHIND 

jumped  in,  carried  water,  bandaged  black  eyes  with  their  hand- 
kerchiefs, freshman  girls  untied  the  freshmen  as  fast  as  the 
sophomores  tied  them  up  —  that's  the  sort  of  girls  they  were. 
And  he  and  the  Other  Man  were  the  only  men  in  the  class  and 
going  down  East  to  college  afterward.  Probably  you  do  not 
understand  just  what  that  meant.  You  may  know,  perhaps, 
some  little  high  church  prep,  school,  built  on  the  top  of  a  hill 
like  a  robber  baron's  castle,  where  there  are  just  about  enough 
men  to  make  up  the  teams  if  each  man  plays  on  all  of  them, 
and  the  man  who  is  captain  of  the  eleven  is  generally  captain 
of  the  nine  and  the  track  team  and  leads  the  banjo  club.  If 
you  were  chosen  captain  of  the  eleven  in  your  freshman  year, 
you  would,  of  course,  be  a  much  greater  man  than  the  President. 
But  you  wouldn't  have  a  lot  of  good-fellow  girls  to  tell  you  so. 
And  the  Vandalia  Miler  had  both  —  he  and  the  Other  Man. 

They  turned  out  the  only  decent  eleven  the  school  had  ever 
had  and  a  nine  and  a  paper,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  divided 
everything  —  just  as  though  it  was  a  Trust.  One  of  them  would 
write  the  editorials  calling  down  the  faculty  and  the  other 
would  preside  at  the  mass  meetings;  he  would  lead  the  mandolin 
club,  with  about  six  yards  of  satin  ribbon  which  one  of  the  girls 
had  given  him  tied  to  his  mandolin  to  show  that  he  was  leader, 
and  the  Other  Man  would  lead  the  glee  club  and  sing  all  the 
tenor  solos.  And  at  last,  in  their  senior  year,  they  got  up  a 
track  team.  It  was  the  last  chance  they  had  —  after  June  the 
deluge.  They  sent  to  Chicago  for  real  running  clothes  and 
spiked  shoes  —  it  had  been  sneakers  and  trousers  cut  off  at  the 
knees  before  that  in  Vandalia  —  and  taught  the  school  a  brand 
new  cheer.  The  merchants  put  up  the  money  to  send  the  team 
down  to  Pardeeville,  and  the  night  before  they  left  there  was 
a  mass  meeting  and  a  dance  and  speeches.  The  Vandalia 
Miler,  blinking  at  the  torn  mosquito-bar  that  covered  the 
little  window,  smiled  grimly  as  he  thought  of  that  speech  — 
of  that  droll  school  orator  of  theirs,  older  than  the  rest  of  them, 


ARTHUR  RUHL  159 

with  his  high  forehead  and  Henry  Clay  scalp  lock,  and  his  arms 
outspread  and  his  voice  in  his  boots:  "With  every  heart  in 
Vandalia  beating  for  you,  every  eye  turned  down  the  prairie 
toward  the  South,  you  go  —  to  run  for  Vandalia,  to  win  for 
Vandalia,  and  if  not  to  win,  to  fight  to  the  last  ditch  for  the 
purple  '  V '  upon  your  breasts !"  And  he  and  the  Other  Man  had 
gone  home  together  on  air,  and  told  each  other  how  they  were 
going  to  make  the  team  when  they  got  down  to  college  and 
show  those  effete  Easterners  what  it  meant  to  meet  a  real  man 
and  —  and  there  was  a  light  in  the  library  window  when  he 
got  home,  past  midnight  though  it  was,  and  his  father  was  in 
there  locked  up  with  his  lawyer.  Something  had  happened. 
It  wouldn  't  be  announced  for  a  day  or  two,  but  everything  had 
gone  to  smash,  and  it  meant  that  the  Vandalia  Miler  must  stay 
behind  and  go  to  work  in  the  hardware  store.  He  didn't  sleep 
much  that  night,  and  he  went  down  to  the  train  the  next  day 
as  late  as  he  could  and  slipped  on  when  nobody  would  see  him, 
while  the  girls  were  singing  and  waving  flags  from  the  station 
platform  and  the  rest  of  the  men  were  leaning  out  of  the  win- 
dows and  laughing  and  waving  their  hats.  And  here  he  was  — 
where  he  had  longed  to  be  —  sent  down  on  the  team  to  run  for 
his  school  and  his  town,  and  it  all  seemed  like  something  in  a 
pantomime,  outside  of  him  and  far  away,  unreal  and  part  of 
a  horrid  dream.  But  he  had  to  run.  It  came  back  just  as  it 
did  every  minute  or  two,  like  a  quick  pain.  He  went  hot  all 
over.  Those  others,  who  were  going  to  fight  it  out  with  him, 
were  all  sleeping  now,  just  like  the  Other  Man.  He  must  hang 
on  to  himself  —  get  some  sleep.  He  gritted  his  teeth,  squeezed 
his  fists,  and  told  himself  that  after  all  they  were  kids  and  he 
was  now  a  real  man.  There  are  a  number  of  things  —  he  would 
begin  very  sternly  —  more  important  than  going  to  college,  and 
a  'varsity  initial  won't  help  you  much  before  a  judge  and  jury 
or  patch  up  anybody's  broken  bones  or  tell  how  the  market's 
going,  but  —  and  here  he  slipped  and  raced  away  again  —  but 


160  LEFT  BEHIND 

no  more  will  a  Victoria  Cross  nor  a  rag  from  the  captured 
colors.  And  just  as  long  —  just  as  long  as  there  are  men  in 
the  world  with  hearts  under  their  coats  and  blood  in  their  veins 
there'll  be  somebody  to  work  the  last  gun  and  to  head  the 
forlorn  hope  and  fling  a  life  away  for  a  smile  or  a  cheer  or  a  bit 
of  ribbon.  And  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  whether  he's 
got  on  a  cuirassier's  breast-plate  or  football  canvas,  a  running 
suit  or  khaki.     And  when  the  others  are  ready  to  go  and  the 

band  begins  to  play,  it  isn  't  any  fun  to  be  left  behind  and 

He  got  sorrier  and  sorrier  for  himself,  which  is  a  very,  very  bad 
thing  for  a  very  young  man  to  do,  until  at  last  he  flung  himself 
back  on  the  bed,  and  with  his  head  full  of  charging  cavalry, 
photographs  of  'varsity  teams,  batteries  galloping  into  action, 
and  lonely  outcasts  left  behind,  he  finally  dropped  asleep, 
just  as  the  night  was  graying  and  the  birds  were  beginning  to 
chirp  in  the  trees  outside.  For  just  a  minute  he  forgot,  and 
then  somebody  shook  him  and  he  saw  the  Other  Man  was 
standing  over  him,  fresh  as  paint. 

"Gee,  man!"  he  laughed;  " you  look  dead  as  a  smelt !  Don't 
mean  you  stayed  awake  with  all  that  bed  to  range  about  in!1' 
"Oh,  no,"  said  the  Vandalia  Miler;  "I  slept  all  right." 
He  ran  very  well  in  spite  of  everything.  Had  he  had  a  bit 
more  experience  in  racing,  he  would  have  tried  sooner  to  get 
within  striking  distance  of  the  leaders.  As  it  was,  coming 
round  the  upper  turn  into  the  stretch,  he  sprinted  past  the 
fifth  and  fourth  men  and  lost  his  feet  and  fell,  completely  run 
out,  just  as  he  was  being  beaten  for  third  place  about  seven 
feet  short  of  the  tape.  It  was  one  of  those  races  of  which  the 
spectator  always  may  remark  that  if  the  man  had  had  a  bit 
more  sand  he  would  have  won.  The  Other  Man  had  already 
won  his  brilliant  victory  in  the  hundred  when  the  Vandalia 
Miler  was  beaten.  A  lot  of  people  were  congratulating  him 
and  the  trainer  of  one  of  the  State  universities  had  just  promised 
him  board  and  tuition  if  he  would  enter  there  that  fall  as  the 


ARTHUR  RUHL  161 

Miler  staggered  over  the  line.  The  Other  Man  said  things 
to  the  trainer  and  told  him  that  he'd  mistaken  his  man. 

"Where  we're  going,"  and  he  smiled  at  the  Vandalia  Miler 
as  he  helped  him  to  the  dressing-room,  "they  don't  have  pro- 
fessionals on  the  team!"  The  Vandalia  Miler  didn't  say 
anything  —  you  can't  say  much  just  after  you've  run  yourself 
out  in  a  mile  race  —  but  just  as  soon  as  he  could,  he  pulled 
on  his  clothes.  He  was  special  correspondent  for  the  Vandalia 
Blade.  They  had  made  him  feel  very  proud  and  important 
a  couple  of  days  before  when  they  had  asked  him  to  "rush  in 
a  thousand  words  after  the  games,  just  as  soon  as  he  could  jump 
on  a  wire."  So  he  dragged  himself  over  to  the  railroad  station 
and  jumped  on  the  wire.  It  was  not  what  you  would  call  a 
creative  mood.  But  he  sent  the  story.  By  biting  his  lip  and 
stopping  every  little  while  he  told  all  about  it,  while  little 
black  spots  chased  each  other  up  the  paper,  and  the  rest  who  had 
been  beaten  were  coming  to  and  the  Other  Man  was  making 
friends  with  the  prep-school  stars  and  promising  to  look  them 
up  when  he  got  down  East. 

When  the  story  was  off  the  wire  he  went  back  to  the  boarding- 
house  and  lay  down  on  the  tall  feather-bed.  He  was  still  there 
when  the  Other  Man  came  up  to  dress  for  the  dance  that  was 
to  be  given  for  the  visiting  teams  that  night  in  the  college  gym. 
The  Other  Man  began  early  because,  with  only  a  little  wavy 
mirror  and  a  smelly  kerosene  lamp,  a  wet  hair-brush,  and  a 
straight  stand-up  collar  about  as  high  as  a  cuff,  it  takes  one  quite 
a  while  to  make  one's  self  look  like  a  Gibson  man.  The  Other 
Man  spatted  down  his  hair  in  the  light  of  the  little  lamp  and 
whistled  between  his  teeth;  the  Vandalia  Miler  lay  on  the 
feather-bed  staring  at  the  whitewashed  ceiling  and  thinking. 
He  couldn't  ask  the  belle  of  the  ball  down  to  the  football  game 
next  autumn;  he  couldn't  promise  to  send  back  a  college  pin 
for  a  red  satin  pillow  with  a  white  initial  on  it  and  bet  boxes 
of  Huyler's  on  sure  things  with  all  the  girls  who  wanted  to  lose 


1 62  LEFT  BEHIND 

and  make  tobacco-pouches  for  him.  He  couldn't  put  on  any 
dog  at  all.    It  was  back  to  the  tall  grass  for  him. 

"Better  hurry  up  and  get  ready,"  said  the  Other  Man, 
puffing  over  his  tie. 

"Don't  think  I'll  go,"  said  the  Vandalia  Miler.  He  mum- 
bled something  about  having  a  headache  and  feeling  pretty 
dopy.  "What's  the  sport,  anyway,"  he  added,  "meeting  a 
lot  of  girls  you're  never  going  to  see  again?"  He  was,  you  see, 
in  a  pretty  bad  way.  The  Other  Man  turned  round  and  stared. 
Then  he  laughed.     Such  remarks  were  not  worth  a  reply. 

"See  you  there!"  he  chirped  presently.  Then,  with  his  trou- 
sers turned  up  an  extra  reef  and  his  straw  hat  stuck  on  one  side 
—  all  very  rakish  and  kinky  —  he  blew  out  and  down  the  stairs, 
three  steps  at  a  time.  The  Vandalia  Miler  thought  some  more. 
After  a  while  he  got  up,  stretched,  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  Then 
he  jammed  his  running  clothes  into  his  suit-case  —  they  weren  't 
going  to  be  much  use  to  him  any  more  —  and  started  for  the 
station.  Everybody  in  Pardeeville  was  going  to  the  dance. 
On  the  front  porches  in  the  light  of  the  hall  lamps  he  could  see 
the  girls  slipping  their  light  scarfs  over  their  shoulders,  and 
now  and  then  far  down  a  cross  street  catch  the  glimmer  of 
white  through  the  trees.  The  sidewalk  was  narrow,  with  a 
picket-fence  on  one  side  and  big  elms  on  the  other,  and  every 
little  while  he  and  his  suit-case  would  have  to  flatten  up  against 
the  fence  while  a  couple  passed  him,  with  low  words,  perhaps, 
that  he  couldn't  hear,  and  a  ripple  of  laughter,  white  dresses  — 
whiter  in  the  dark  —  and  a  breath  of  perfume  in  the  air  after 
they  had  gone.  The  station  was  deserted  and  silent  as  the  tomb. 
The  only  sign  of  life  was  the  lamp  shining  through  the  window 
and  the  sleepy  telegraph  operator  nodding  over  his  key.  The 
Vandalia  Miler  chucked  his  suit-case  against  the  wall  and 
began  tramping  up  and  down,  counting  the  number  of  steps 
from  one  end  of  the  platform  to  the  other.  After  a  long  while, 
he  went  over  to  the  little  grocery  across  the  street,  bought 


ARTHUR  RUHL  163 

a  box  of  "sweet  caps"  and  smoked  them  relentlessly,  one  after 
another,  inhaling  the  last  two  or  three,  to  convince  himself  that 
he  was  hardened  to  all  things  and  didn  't  care.  Really,  though, 
things  were  getting  more  and  more  on  his  nerves,  and  he  did 
care.  Hours,  it  seemed,  dragged  away.  He  sat  on  the  baggage- 
truck,  trying  not  to  listen.  It  was  clear  moonlight,  still,  and 
clear  as  a  bell.  The  gym  where  they  were  dancing  was  only  a 
few  blocks  away,  behind  the  trees,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
track  was  open  prairie.  There  wasn't  a  sound  there  on  the 
station  platform  except  the  clicking  of  the  telegraph  key,  and 
he  could  hear  the  faint  music  of  the  violins  and  the  toot-toot 
of  the  cornet  coming  over  the  trees. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  train  thundered  in.  He  was 
in  his  seat,  with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  when  the 
rest  came  down  the  street  on  the  run  and  the  Other  Man, 
panting  and  excited,  bounced  into  the  seat  beside  him.  The 
Other  Man  had  to  tell  about  it,  whether  anyone  listened  or  not 
—  what  she  said  and  he  said,  and  how  she  cut  her  dances  right 
and  left  to  sit  'em  out  with  him  and  came  down  to  within  half 
a  block  of  the  station  to  see  him  off.  And  then  there  was  a 
waltz  that  the  Other  Man  wasn't  ever  going  to  forget  —  "  the 
finest  waltz  I  ever  hope  to  hear,  and  that's  a  fact."  The 
Vandalia  Miler  stood  it  for  a  long  time.  Once  he  sat  up  sud- 
denly and  jammed  on  his  hat. 

"For  heaven's  sake  forge/  it!"  he  said.  "Aren't  you  ever 
going  to  get  over  being  a  kid?"  The  Vandalia  Miler,  you  see, 
had  had  to  get  over  being  a  kid  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  it 
didn 't  come  so  easy. 

"  Whatever 's  wrong  with  you?"  laughed  the  Other  Man. 
"Never  saw  anybody  so  peevish  in  my  life!"  And  he  began 
to  whistle  the  tune  harder  than  ever. 

The  train  was  a  milk-train.  It  stopped  at  every  cross-roads. 
It  was  stiflingly  hot  and  smelly  in  the  car,  and  the  Other  Man 
kept  on  humming,  steadily  as  a  pianola,  and  keeping  time  by 


1 64  LEFT  BEHIND 

snapping  his  fingers,  but  for  all  that,  the  Vandalia  Miler  finally 
dropped  asleep.  He  dreamed  that  he  was  down  East,  after 
all,  and  winning  the  mile,  down  a  track  about  like  a  sublimated 
skating-rink,  with  an  audience  of  a  billion  or  two  people,  rising 
to  him  from  a  sort  of  stadium  made  of  pure  white  marble  and 
gold.  He  was  just  being  heaved  up  in  the  air  by  the  frantic 
populace  when  he  woke  up.  And  the  Other  Man  was  shaking 
him  by  the  arm  and  telling  him  that  they  were  back  in  Vandalia. 
He  didn't  need  anyone  to  tell  him  that.  It  was  growing  light 
as  they  stepped  off  the  train.  He  was  just  blinking  his  eyes 
open  and  seeing  the  old  station  and  the  lumber-yard  and  the 
Waldorf  Cafe,  and  everything  inside  him  seemed  to  be  caving 
in,  when  the  Other  Man,  still  up  in  the  air  and  keen  as  a  mink, 
began  to  bray  out  his  everlasting  waltz.  The  Vandalia  Miler 
jumped  as  though  you  had  shot  off  a  revolver  just  behind  his 
ear.    He  whirled  round  and  almost  yelled: 

"For  heaven's  sake,  man,  shut  up!"  The  Other  Man  looked 
at  him  and  laughed. 

"  I  don't  see  what  license  you  've  got  to  be  so  all-fired  grouchy," 
he  said.     "If  you'd  won — " 

"Well?"  cried  the  Vandalia  Miler,  stepping  closer. 

"It  looked  tome—" 

"Looked  to  you!    Are  you  calling  me  a  quitter?" 

You  must  remember  that  it  had  lasted  two  whole  days  and 
nights  now  and  the  ends  of  his  nerves  were  all  sticking  out. 

"Say  it,  will  you?"  He  dropped  his  suit-case  on  the  side- 
walk and  clenched  his  fists.  "Just  say  it  now  —  how  did  it 
look  to  you?"  And  then,  before  anyone  guessed  what  was 
coming,  he  shot  out  with  his  fist.  The  Other  Man's  hands  were 
down,  helpless.  He  caught  it  fairly  on  the  tip  of  the  jaw  and 
went  down  in  a  heap,  and  the  Vandalia  Miler  stood  over  him, 
half  waiting  to  swing  again,  half  scared  at  what  he  had  done. 
The  others  rushed  in  to  pull  them  apart,  but  the  Other  Man 
just  jumped  up  with  a  grim  little  laugh,  as  though  it  was  all 


ARTHUR  RUHL  165 

a  sort  of  joke  and  the  Vandalia  Miler  a  kind  of  wild  man  with 
bad  manners.  Then  he  walked  ahead  with  the  rest.  All  in 
all,  it  was  about  the  completest  thing  he  could  have  done. 
It  left  the  Vandalia  Miler,  you  see,  quite  on  the  outside.  And 
that  was  the  end  of  Damon  and  Pythias  —  and  all  their  plans 
and  dreams.  The  next  day  the  Other  Man  went  down  East 
to  tutor  for  his  entrance  exams.  The  Vandalia  Miler  went  to 
work  in  the  hardware  store,  selling  frying-pans  and  shingle 
nails.   .   .   . 

The  Vandalia  Miler  left  the  store  in  charge  of  the  repair- 
shop  man  and  started  home  for  supper.  He  had  just  sold  an 
improved  gasoline  stove  to  a  farmer's  wife  from  Vienna  Centre 
who  had  never  burned  anything  but  wood,  and  he  was  consider- 
ably excited.  He  swung  up  State  Street,  whistling.  There 
was  a  bulletin  in  the  Blade  window  with  letters  in  blue  ink 
splashed  on  it  a  foot  high.  This  is  what  he  read  —  what 
stopped  his  whistling  short: 

TRIUMPH    OF    VANDALIA    BOY 

Underneath  was  a  dispatch  with  a  New  York  date-line, 
telling  how  the  Other  Man  had  won  the  intercollegiate  mile  at 
Mott  Haven  that  afternoon.  He  felt  his  face  getting  hot. 
He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  squeezed  his  finger-nails 
into  his  palms  so  that  folks  wouldn  't  see.  There  was  a  beautiful 
picture  framed  up  in  his  mind  —  a  picture  built  up  of  Sunday 
supplements,  stories  in  magazines,  and  the  imagination  of  a 
young  man  who  had  never  seen  Mott  Haven,  and  who  stood 
on  a  wooden  sidewalk  on  the  main  street  of  a  fresh-water  town 
a  thousand  miles  away.  It  was  a  sort  of  composite  of  Henley  and 
a  Thanksgiving  game,  and  the  Other  Man  stood  in  the  fore- 
ground in  the  afternoon  sunshine,  panting  easily  and  smiling 
politely  at  the  applause.  In  the  two  years  that  the  Other 
Man  had  been  away  he  hadn't  come  back  even  for  his  vacations, 
and  he  was  getting  to  be  a  we-used-to-know-him-when-he-was- 


1 66  LEFT  BEHIND 

young  sort  of  a  man.  There  had  been  many  stories  about  him 
in  the  Blade.  News  was  rather  scarce  out  there,  and  they  liked 
to  hear  about  each  other.  And  every  time  the  Other  Man  did 
anything  the  town  people  felt  somehow  that  Vandalia  had  done 
it  and  were  glad.  There  was  considerable  local  pride  in  Vandalia. 
They  would  do  anything  for  anybody  who  did  something  for 
the  town.     But  the  Vandalia  Miler  hadn't  learned  this  yet. 

He  got  away  without  being  obliged  to  talk  to  anybody, 
and  hurried  home.  There,  without  knowing  just  why,  he 
unearthed  his  old  running  clothes,  and  just  as  the  sun  was  set- 
ting that  evening  the  Vandalia  Miler  started  jogging  round  the 
old  dirt  track  at  the  fair  grounds,  training  again  for  the  mile. 

They  didn't  go  in  very  heavily  for  sport  in  those  days  in 
Vandalia,  and  everybody  soon  knew  what  he  was  doing  and 
wondered  why.  The  high-school  boys  came  over  late  after- 
noons and  watched  him  run.  Then  they  got  to  pacing  him, 
and  finally  they  asked  him  to  help  them  get  up  a  team  to  lick 
Sugar  River.  Sugar  River  was  a  town  about  twenty  miles 
north  of  Vandalia.  The  only  difference  between  the  two  towns 
to  an  outsider  was  that  the  one  had  an  opera-house  and  a 
six-story  hotel,  and  the  other  had  ten  blocks  of  brick  paving. 
A  football  game  between  Vandalia  and  Sugar  River  would  have 
made  the  '94  Springfield  game  look  like  an  international  peace 
congress  or  a  vegetarian  breakfast.  The  Vandalia  Miler  helped 
them  with  the  team.  He  didn't  know,  of  course,  that  it  was 
about  the  most  important  thing  he'd  ever  done  in  his  life  and 
he  was  thinking  too  much  of  himself  and  the  Other  Man  to  be 
very  much  interested.  But  he  did  it  as  well  as  he  knew  how. 
Sugar  River  annihilated  them.  They  lost  every  point.  It 
didn't  especially  increase  Vandalia's  love  for  Sugar  River. 

The  Vandalia  Miler  was  embarrassed,  but  he  kept  up  his  own 
running,  not  training  enough  to  get  tired  of  it.  Some  days  he 
took  a  lot  of  little  sprints,  some  a  jog  of  five  miles  or  so,  some  a 
rest  or  a  bit  of  tennis,  but  no  smoking,  and  all  the  time  plenty 


ARTHUR  RUHL  167 

of  sleep.  Sometimes  he'd  try  it  at  sun-up,  before  the  rest  of 
the  town  was  awake,  just  to  test  his  steam  and  press  himself 
a  bit;  and  sometimes,  on  moonlight  nights,  when  he  could  see 
the  track  plain  as  day,  he'd  go  over  after  dark  and  whirl  off 
his  mile  at  top  speed,  stripped  to  the  buff  —  racing  .through 
the  moonlight  with  the  cool  night  smell  coming  up  from  the 
grass  and  the  cool  wind  blowing  on  him  all  over.  Those  were 
the  times  when  he  even  forgot  the  Other  Man.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  was  tireless,  eating  up  the  distance  like  a  ghost  with 
a  feeling  all  the  time  of  I've-done-this-before-in-the-dawn-of- 
things-a-million-years-ago.  The  next  day,  when  he  was  back 
in  the  hardware  store,  he  would  smile  inside  at  ordinary  folks 
plodding  about  in  their  foolish  store-clothes.  The  point  is, 
you  see,  he  began  to  run  for  the  fun  of  running.  It  was  the  only 
thing  he'd  had  for  company  since  the  Other  Man  went  away. 
By  the  time  summer  was  over  he  was  brown  as  an  Indian  and 
hard  as  nails  and  he  could  run  like  a  broncho. 

In  August,  in  Vandalia,  came  the  Clearwater  County  fair. 
It  was  the  biggest  fair  in  the  State  —  more  people,  bigger 
pumpkins,  fatter  hogs,  taller  corn,  more  balloons  and  bands 
and  red  lemonade  and  noise.  The  fair  grounds  began  to  fill 
up  with  red  thrashing-machines  and  candy  booths  and  side- 
show tents  —  not  the  place  for  a  young  man  who  preferred  to 
be  alone.  On  the  afternoon  of  Wednesday,  the  third  day  of 
the  fair,  the  Vandalia  Miler  stopped  at  the  corner  drug-store 
for  a  drink  of  soda-water,  on  his  way  home.  He  was  just 
swallowing  a  glass  of  Arctic  Mist  and  recalling  that  a  preparation 
known  as  Lemo  Kolo  had  tasted  just  like  it  a  year  ago,  when  out 
through  the  window,  over  the  colored-water  jars,  he  saw  the 
Other  Man,  home  again  after  his  triumphs  in  the  vast  and 
glittering  East,  togged  out  in  a  set  of  very  tricky  flannels  and 
blowing  along  State  Street,  bowing  right  and  left,  and  beaming 
like  a  fresh-plucked  rose  for  joy  at  getting  home.  You  might 
just  as  well  have  flashed  a  search-light  in  his  eyes  at  ten  paces. 


1 68  LEFT  BEHIND 

He  was  all  in.  The  two  years  that  had  passed  rolled  up  like  a 
patent  window-shade  when  the  spring  slips,  and  he  was  back 
at  the  railroad  station,  just  home  from  Pardeeville,  watching  the 
Other  Man  walk  away  through  the  melancholy  dawn.  He  saw 
him  pushing  open  the  screen,  and  he  braced  himself  for  an  in- 
stant to  face  it  out,  cold  and  rather  haughtily.  Then  he  flung 
a  dime  on  the  counter  and  red  as  fire  hurried  out  the  side  door. 

That  night  the  Blade  published  a  long  program  for  Thursday, 
the  big  day  at  the  fair.  There  was  to  be  a  special  excursion 
from  Sugar  River,  a  free-for-all  trot  and  a  two-fifteen  pace, 
the  McHenry  Zouaves,  the  Diving  Horse,  a  fat  ladies'  potato 
race,  Pavella  the  King  of  Tight  Wire,  and —  "an  open  mile 
foot-race  for  the  championship  of  the  world."  That  was  the 
way  the  Blade  put  it.  They  could  always  be  trusted  in  such 
cases  to  do  the  right  thing.  Of  course  it  was  the  Other  Man's 
crowd  who  had  conceived  the  idea  of  the  race.  He  had  brought 
some  of  his  friends  home  with  him  from  the  East  to  show  them 
what  the  West  was  like,  and  they  had  thought  it  would  be  good 
sport  to  make  him  trot  out  and  perform  for  the  girls  and  the 
merry  villagers.  "For  the  championship  of  the  world,"  said  the 
Blade.  "That  this  is  no  mere  jest  is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that 
first  among  the  list  of  entries  appears  the  name  of  our  famous 
young  townsman,  the  present  inter-collegiate  champion.  He 
informed  a  representative  of  the  Blade  this  afternoon  that  he 
had  kept  up  his  training  for  just  such  a  contingency  as  this, 
and  that  he  never  was  in  finer  fettle.  The  scribe  found  him  at 
his  home,  'The  Elms,'  on  the  beautiful  estate  north  of  the  city, 
where  he  is  entertaining  a  number  of  wealthy  young  society 
men  from  Eastern  bon-ton  circles,  and  found  him  as  modest 
as  he  was  when  he  left  his  native  town  two  years  ago.  He 
said  that  nothing  would  please  him  more  than  to  run  at  the 
fair-grounds'  track.  'For  it  was  there,'  said  he,  'that  I  won 
my  first  race,  you  know!'  " 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  the  Vandalia  Miler.    And  then  he  called  up 


ARTHUR  RUHL  169 

the  superintendent's  office  at  the  fair  grounds  and  told  them  to 
enter  him  for  the  mile.   .   .   . 

There  was,  in  the  first  place,  a  piping  hot  August  afternoon, 
the  kind  that  they  have  out  in  the  corn  belt,  when  not  a  drop 
of  rain  has  fallen  for  a  couple  of  months  and  the  leaves  are  dry- 
ing up  on  the  trees  and  the  grass  is  yellow  and  crackly  under 
foot,  and  the  dust  follows  after  the  farmer's  wagons  like  smoke. 
Then,  inside  a  high  board  fence,  was  the  fair  ground,  with  big 
wooden  halls  here  and  there,  oak-trees  with  locusts  singing  away 
in  the  branches,  and  packed  full  of  people  and  prize  cattle  and 
pumpkins  and  lunch-boxes  and  chewing  candy  and  noise. 
There  were  farmers  in  their  store-clothes  just  in  from  thrashing 
and  farmers'  girls  in  white  dresses  with  pink  and  baby-blue 
ribbons,  and  in  between  children  with  sticky  popcorn  and  red 
balloons  and  squawkers.  There  was  a  "natural  amphitheatre" 
with  benches  running  along  the  side  hill,  where  the  hushed 
crowd  gaped  at  the  spell-binder  waving  his  arms  beside  the  ice- 
water  pitcher.  There  were  prize  pig  pens  and  sheep  pens,  the 
art  hall  with  its  pictures  of  peaches  tumbling  out  of  baskets 
and  watermelons  just  opened  with  the  knife  lying  beside  them, 
and  the  tents  where  Diavolo  ate  grass  and  blew  fire  out  of 
his  mouth  and  the  beautiful  young  lady  stood  out  on  a  platform 
by  the  ticket-box,  in  faded  pink  tights,  with  a  big  wet  snake 
wound  around  her  throat  and  her  spangles  blinking  in  the 
sunshine.  There  were  sample  windmills  and  cane-ringing 
games,  and  wherever  there  was  room  a  man  shaking  popcorn 
or  pulling  candy  over  a  hook,  or  a  damp  little  shed  smelling  of 
vanilla,  where  people  were  eating  ice  cream  and  drinking  red 
lemonade.  You  get  all  that  and  lots  more  going  at  once,  with 
the  barkers  yelling  and  the  merry-go-round  organs  squealing 
away,  with  the  sun  blazing  at  ninety-four  in  the  shade 
and  everywhere  the  smell  of  hot  people  and  clothes  and 
stale  perfume,  of  lemonade  and  popcorn  and  peanuts  and 
dust  and  trampled  grass  —  you  take  all  that,  draw  a  third- 


170  LEFT  BEHIND 

of-a-mile  circle  through  the  thick  of  it,  push  the  crowd  back  a 
bit,  and  you  have  the  Vandalia  track  that  day  as  the  engine 
bell  in  the  judges'  stand  tolled  out  the  warning  signal  and  the 
old  marshal  on  his  white  circus  horse  rode  down  the  track 
sidewise,  bellowing  out  the  "mile  foot  race  fer  the  champeen- 
ship  of  the  world!" 

As  he  caught  the  sharp  command  of  the  bell  —  the  same  bell 
that  for  years  and  years  had  called  up  the  trotting  horses  from 
the  stables  —  the  Vandalia  Miler  jumped  out  of  his  blanket 
in  the  Tight-Wire  Man's  tent  and  pushed  through  the  crowd 
to  the  mark.  The  farmer  girls  giggled  as  they  saw  his  bare 
legs  and  a  train  of  small  boys  followed  him,  gaping  solemnly 
in  the  manner  of  those  determined  to  see  just  how  it  was  done. 
The  Vandalia  Miler  was  very  pale.  As  he  took  his  place  on 
the  starting  line  he  was  the  only  one  there  ready  to  run.  He 
stared  straight  ahead  at  the  people  edging  up  closer  to  the  little 
lane  that  was  left  for  them  to  run  through,  licked  his  dry  lips 
and  rubbed  nervously  his  bare  left  arm.  There  they  were,  the 
farmers  and  the  townspeople,  the  men  and  the  girls  that  he  and 
the  Other  Man  had  grown  up  with  and  gone  to  school  with. 
And  he  felt  that  if  he  could  beat  him  —  so  slim  and  smiling 
and  sure  —  beat  him  in  Vandalia,  there  and  then,  with  Vandalia 
and  the  county  and  the  old  crowd  looking  on  —  The  engine- 
bell  clanged  again  peremptorily. 

"Coming!  Coming!"  Somebody  was  shouting  uproariously 
over  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  A  big  tan  buckboard  drove  in 
between  the  surreys  and  lumber-wagons,  and  out  hopped  the 
Other  Man,  all  wrapped  up  in  a  great  plaid  ulster,  his  bare 
ankles  showing  underneath  it.  He  threw  off  his  coat  and  stood 
there  laughing  and  shaking  hands  with  his  friends  —  in  his 
'varsity  running  clothes,  the  crimson  ribbon  across  his  chest. 
The  Vandalia  Miler  saw  him  and  gripped  his  fingers  tight. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  crowd  suddenly  became  still;  the 
uproar  of  the  squawkers  and  carousel-organ  sounded  vague  and 


ARTHUR  RUHL  171 

far  away.  At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd 
just  under  the  stand,  and  a  big,  tow-headed  chap  began  to  pull 
off  his  overalls  and  shirt.  "Hey,  there!"  he  called  up  to  the 
starters;  "I  want  to  get  in  this!"  The  crowd  began  to  laugh 
good-naturedly,  but  the  Vandalia  Miler  didn't  laugh  at  all. 
He  was  trying  to  remember  where  he  had  seen  this  farmer's 
face.  On  the  sleeveless  jersey  which  the  tow-headed  man 
wore  underneath  his  flannel  shirt  was  a  spot  cleaner  than  the 
rest.  It  was  where  an  initial  had  been  torn  away.  He  turned 
to  find  the  Other  Man  in  front  of  him,  smiling  and  holding  out 
his  hand.     He  took  it,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did. 

"So  we're  going  to  have  it  out,  right  here  and  now,"  laughed 
the  Other  Man,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Vandalia  Miler.  His  mouth  was  all  cotton, 
so  it  came  in  a  quick  sort  of  whisper.     "Yes,"  he  repeated. 

"I  hope,"  began  the  Other  Man,  and  then  he  paused  and 
grinned  a  little  and  blushed.  "It's  been  quite  a  while  —  I 
hope — "  All  at  once  some  one  cried  —  "Now,  ready!" 
The  crowd  that  had  apparently  been  pushing  and  shoving 
aimlessly  about  the  judges'  stand  closed  into  a  compact  mass 
and  out  came  a  yell  — ■  one  of  those  old-fashioned,  wild-Indian, 
give-'em-the-axe,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  yells,  with  Sugar 
River  at  the  end.  "Sugar  River  —  Sugar  River  —  Sugar 
River!"  three  times,  like  that.  It  was  like  marching  into  the 
middle  of  an  Irish  picnic  with  a  brass  band  playing  "Boyne 
Water."  A  hoot  and  a  howl  came  back  from  all  along  the 
track  and  the  crowd  —  all  Vandalia,  it  seemed  —  began  to 
stampede  in  toward  the  judges'  stand.  The  Vandalia  Miler 
grabbed  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  long  grass  from  the  turf  at  the 
side  of  the  track  and  wadded  them  up  in  his  hands  for  "corks." 
His  face  wasn't  as  pale  now  and  a  new  look  jumped  into  his 
eyes.  He  turned  to  the  Other  Man,  yelling  above  the  uproar 
of  the  crowd. 

"You  want  to  look  out  for  him:  He's  a  ringer,  and  he's  run- 


172  LEFT  BEHIND 

ning  for  Sugar  River!"  And  in  the  thick  of  the  noise  and  the 
pushing  and  the  dust,  the  starter  swung  his  hat  downward  and 
with  the  single  cry  of  "Go!"  sent  the  three  runners  away. 

The  Other  Man  cut  across  from  the  outside  like  a  flash  and 
took  the  pole.  The  Vandalia  Miler  closed  in  behind,  tight  on 
his  heels,  eyes  hooked  to  his  back,  just  below  the  shoulders. 
The  tow-headed  man  trailed  the  two,  big-boned  and  heavy, 
but  striding  long  and  strong  as  a  horse.  Into  the  crowd  they 
went  —  a  sort  of  curving  chute,  walled  in  by  faces  and  clothes 
smelling  of  popcorn  and  dust,  and  a  baking  sun  beating  down 
from  overhead  —  like  three  machines,  stride  and  stride  alike, 
the  Other  Man  leading  the  way  like  a  race-horse,  strong  and 
confident,  as  if  he  were  only  playing  with  the  game.  Out  into 
the  open  and  the  cooler  air  of  the  back-stretch  they  swung, 
past  the  red  thrashers  and  pig  pens,  round  the  lower  turn, 
and  toward  the  judges'  stand  again.  They  were  going  like  a 
three-horse  tandem,  the  Vandalia  Miler  so  close  up  that  the  dirt 
from  the  Other  Man's  spikes  splashed  his  shins.  He  could  see 
indistinctly  the  crowd  still  jostling  and  shouting  under  the 
wire,  see  the  lobster-red  face  and  white  mustache  of  old  Skerritt, 
the  starter,  leaning  out  on  the  rail  of  the  judges'  stand  toward 
them  and  bellowing  through  his  hands  something  about  beating 
out  Sugar  River.  He  felt  the  mass  open  up  and  close  in  after 
them,  the  suffocating  walled-in  chute  growing  hotter  and  heavier, 
the  pull  of  the  second  quarter  beginning  to  drag  hard  on  his  legs 
and  wind,  and  at  the  time  he  saw  plainly  that  the  Other  Man 
was,  if  anything,  increasing  the  pace  —  pushing  ahead  like  a 
doped  race-horse,  at  a  half-mile  gait,  forgetting  that  there  was 
anybody  behind  him.  The  pace  held  —  screwed  up  tight  — 
stride  and  stride  alike,  round  the  upper  turn  and  into  the  open 
again.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  a  big  mullin  leaf  — 
one  of  his  old  mile-stones  —  slip  past  their  feet,  the  beginning 
of  the  third  quarter.  But  the  shade  of  a  let-down  in  the  pace 
which  he  expected  there  and  which  prepares  for  the  last  quarter 


ARTHUR  RUHL  173 

never  came.  As  they  struck  the  cooler  air  —  it  was  like  get- 
ting out  of  a  cornfield  into  the  road  —  the  noise  about  the  judges' 
stand  —  Sugar  River  and  Vandalia  all  mixed  together  —  came 
reaching  across  the  field  bigger  than  ever,  and  every  time  it 
puffed  out  louder  the  Other  Man's  back  jumped  ahead  a  bit. 
The  Vandalia  Miler  stuck  close  —  not  pressing,  not  letting  him- 
self lose  an  inch.  He  was  holding  every  ounce  of  steam,  run- 
ning every  stride  with  his  head.  Round  the  lower  turn  they 
pounded,  every  dozen  strides  or  so  letting  slip  another  link, 
and  then,  just  as  they  were  rounding  into  the  straightaway, 
there  suddenly  puffed  up  from  the  judges'  stand  a  great  roar 
of  "  Sugar  River !"  At  the  same  instant  he  heard  a  hoarse  breath 
just  behind  his  neck,  an  arm  bumped  his  elbow,  and  the  tow- 
headed  man  pushed  by  on  the  outside  and  went  up  after  the 
leader.  The  crowd  down  the  track  was  going  wild.  Old 
Skerritt  was  banging  the  engine-bell  for  the  last  lap  like  a 
fireman  going  to  a  fire.  The  Vandalia  Miler  didn't  shift  his 
eyes  a  hair's  breadth  from  the  Other  Man's  back.  He  was 
surprised  at  himself  to  see  how  cool  he  was;  how  he  was  calcu- 
lating whether  the  Other  Man  was  tireless  or  had  merely  lost 
his  head,  whether  the  Sugar  River  man  could  make  good  with 
his  bluff  or  whether,  as  they  heard  the  crowd,  he  was  just 
playing  to  the  gallery.  In  the  next  two-twenty  he  would  know. 
There  was  more  than  a  quarter  yet  to  go,  and  he  tried  to  feel 
it  all  as  a  unit  and  know  just  how  much  he  had  left.  Past 
the  stand  and  into  the  crowd  again  —  the  Sugar  River  man's 
chin  slewed  round  a  bit.  He  was  lifting  into  the  sprint!  And 
a  quarter  yet  to  go!  He  saw  the  Other  Man's  back  jump 
forward  as  he  met  the  challenge,  saw  them  fighting,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  knew  the  moment  had  come,  that  here  and  now  the 
race  was  to  be  lost  or  won,  and  he  squeezed  his  corks,  shut  his 
eyes,  and  bore  on  hard.  For  a  dozen  strides  he  fought,  like  a 
man  under  water  trying  to  get  to  the  surface,  when  suddenly, 
from  the  edge  of  the  track  ahead  came  a  quick,  triumphant 


174  LEFT  BEHIND 

cheer.  He  opened  his  eyes.  The  Sugar  River  man  was  ahead! 
He  had  squeezed  past  and  was  on  the  pole,  drawing  away  from 
the  Other  Man.  But  it  was  not  the  Sugar-River  yell  that  was 
echoing  across  the  track.  It  was  a  new  and  different  cry  — 
nervous,  compact,  fierce,  relentless.  It  forced  itself  through 
the  general  hullabaloo  and  dominated  it,  and  suddenly  it  came 
clear  to  the  Vandalia  Miler's  ears  —  the  old  drum-beat  cheer  — 
his  cheer  —  the  one  he  and  the  Other  Man  had  taught  the 
school  before  the  team  went  to  Pardeeville.  And  his  name  was 
at  the  end.  Down  came  a  pair  of  arms  a  rod  or  two  in  front  of 
him  and  out  it  smashed  again  —  that  wonderful  yell  with  the 
sudden  shift  of  the  beat  in  the  fifth  line,  like  getting  under 
a  big  weight,  all  together,  and  shoving  after  you've  been  pound- 
ing it.  He  fought  on  in  a  dizzy  sort  of  trance,  not  knowing 
what  was  happening,  but  feeling  suddenly  light  and  confident 
and  strong.  He  felt  himself  gaining  —  felt  that  somehow  the 
backs  of  the  other  two  men  were  drawing  irresistibly  nearer. 
Some  one  ran  along  beside  him,  waving  a  hat.  ''You've  got 
him!  You've  got  him!  Keep  it  up!  Keep  it  up!"  the  man 
cried.  "Vandalia!  Vandalia!  Vandalia!"  All  at  once  it 
came  to  him  that  he  had  got  him  —  got  the  Other  Man  —  got 
the  ringer  —  that  Vandalia  was  going  to  beat  Sugar  River  and 
they  were  calling  on  him  to  come.  The  cheer  shot  out  again  — 
a  little  farther  ahead  —  as  fast  as  the  beat  stopped  it  was  caught 
up  and  carried  on.  Some  one  —  it  was  the  boys  he  'd  trained 
who  had  done  it  —  had  strung  relays  all  round  the  track.  It 
became  a  regular  bombardment.  The  crowd  listened  — 
wavered  —  and  broke  loose.  They  came  swarming  down  from 
the  seats  on  the  side  hill  and  over  the  rail.  They  followed 
along  behind  in  a  drove,  yelling  like  Indians.  It  looked  like  a 
picture  of  the  flight  from  Pompeii  with  everybody  laughing  — 
kids  and  men  and  girls  stumbling  along  in  the  grass  at  the  side 
of  the  track  and  scuffling  up  the  dust  behind.  He  could  hear 
them  laughing  and  screaming:  "Keep  it  up!    Keep  it  up!" 


ARTHUR  RUHL  175 

and  "Beat  him!  Beat  him!  Vandalia!  Vandalia!"  and 
steadily  all  the  time  from  behind  and  in  front  came  that  drum- 
beat cheer,  ripping  and  pounding  out  above  the  rest.  The 
relays  crossed  each  other  and  overlapped,  taking  it  up  and 
beating  it  in  —  swinging  it,  jamming  it  at  'em.  It  seemed  as 
though  that  whole  fair  ground  had  jumped  together  in  a  twink- 
ling and  was  calling  on  him  to  come.  It  all  hit  him  in  a  flash  — 
shivered  up  his  backbone.  He  had  stayed  behind,  but  he 
was  somebody,  after  all,  and  he  stood  for  somebody  and  they 
stood  for  him  and  expected  things  of  him.  He  forgot  the  Other 
Man,  forgot  himself.  He  was  Vandalia  now,  and  Vandalia 
must  smash  Sugar  River.  It  was  more  than  getting  even, 
more  than  winning;  it  was  fighting  for  his  friends,  for  his  town, 
for  his  country.     His  feet  seemed  lifted  from  the  ground. 

Maybe  Vandalia  was  a  dull  place  to  live  in,  but  it  was  ever- 
lastingly healthy.  All  his  running  and  going-to-bed-with-the- 
chickens  came  back  to  help  him  now.  Rounding  into  the 
stretch,  he  took  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  turned  everything  loose. 
With  every  stride  he  seemed  to  pull  the  Sugar  River  man's 
back  nearer,  hand  over  hand.  His  elbow  bumped  an  arm 
and  he  heard  the  Other  Man  gasping  out,  "Beat  him!  Beat 
him!"  as  he  passed  by.  Nothing  could  have  stopped  him  then. 
There  were  fifty  yards  left.  He  shut  his  eyes  again;  his  elbow 
bumped  an  arm,  then  the  engine-bell  was  clanging  overhead,  and 
the  tape  hit  his  chest.  The  crowd  closed  in,  there  was  a  great 
uproar  all  round  him,  and  he  turned  just  in  time  to  see  the 
Sugar  River  man  go  down  and  out  about  six  feet  short  of  the 
line,  and  to  catch  the  Other  Man  in  his  arms  as  he  dove  forward 
and  fainted  clean  away. 

He  picked  him  up  like  a  child,  and,  spent  as  he  was,  car- 
ried him  into  the  Tight-Wire  Man's  tent.  Outside  the  crowd 
cheered  and  howled,  and  pushed  up  against  the  canvas  walls, 
and  from  the  distance  came  the  boom  of  the  band,  marching 
toward  them  across  the  field.     He  swabbed  on  witch-hazel 


176  LEFT  BEHIND 

desperately  —  panting,  dizzy  with  excitement  and  happiness, 
and  a  queer  happy-weepy  remorse.  The  Other  Man  opened 
his  eyes  and  blinked. 

"Bill" —  he  grinned  the  best  he  could  and  held  out  his  hand  — 
"I  guess  we've  been  fools  long  enough."  Then  he  got  tired  again. 
"It  was  a  great  race,"  he  said,  without  opening  his  eyes.  The 
Vandalia  Miler  swabbed  on  the  witch-hazel  the  harder.  "Yes!" 
he  panted;  "Yes!"  He  meant  that  he  thought  it  had  been  long 
enough.  Somehow  he  couldn  't  remember  any  words.  Then  the 
crowd  pushed  in.     The  Other  Man  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"Go  out  to  them,  Bill,"  he  said;  "I'm  all  right.  You 
don't  want  to  forget  —  you're  champeen  of  the  world!" 

They  grabbed  him  up,  protesting,  lifted  him  on  their  shoulders 
and  carried  him  out  of  the  tent.  He  felt  the  cooler  air  and  he 
saw  the  faces  turned  toward  him  and  heard  the  cheers  and 
cries,  and  then  they  marched  out  to  the  people  —  his  own 
people  at  last  —  with  the  band  booming  away  at  the  head. 

That,  in  a  way,  is  about  what  they've  been  doing  to  him 
ever  since,  out  there  in  Vandalia.  At  least  that  is  what  Star- 
buck  said  as  he  told  us  the  story  —  we  who  had  run  together 
and  played  together  and  were  back  from  East  and  West  to  see 
another  class  day,  to  tell  the  old  stories,  run  the  old  races  over 
again,  swing  home  again  with  the  pack  through  the  frosty 
autumn,  toward  the  lights  of  the  Square.  Starbuck,  you  see, 
was  the  Other  Man. 

"They've  just  nominated  him  for  governor  out  in  our  State," 
said  he,  "and  they're  celling  the  story  of  that  race  all  the  way 
from  South  River  Junction  to  the  North  State  line.  I'm  one 
of  Bill's  spell-binders;  that's  why  I  tell  it  so  well.  He's  our 
Favorite  Son  now,  and  he's  only  begun."  Starbuck  took  a 
couple  of  brisk  pulls  at  his  cigar  and  blew  a  big  cloud  of  smoke 
toward  the  ceiling. 

"Begins  to  look"  said  he,  cheerfully,  "as  though  I  was  the 
man  who  was  left  behind. " 


XIII.  THE  CHAPERON  » 
Alta  Brunt  Sembower 

["This  story  is  an  example  of  how  to  weave  the  strands  of  a  peculiar  plot  into 
the  texture  of  common,  homely  life.  Notice  how  easily  the  unusual  and  the  com- 
monplace join,  each  helping  to  bring  out,  rather  than  to  subdue,  the  essential 
qualities  of  the  other,  and  how  they  make  a  single  pattern.] 

Silas  Rand  stood  on  the  platform  at  Rand's  Crossing  — 
which,  as  the  world's  approach  to  a  stretch  of  notable  farming 
country,  had  long  since  ceased  to  have  any  pride  merely  in  being 
his  namesake  —  and  watched  the  disappearing  train.  Some- 
thing feminine  in  the  cool  swiftness  with  which  it  took  the  curves 
struck  him  as  he  gazed.  It  had  the  triumphant  air  that  his 
wife  sometimes  wore  when  she  was  going  out  of  the  room  after 
a  verbal  shot. 

"She's  gone!"  announced  Silas,  with  generous  admiration. 

He  had  thought  himself  alone  —  the  morning  train  had  left 
no  passengers.  The  hack  which  had  waited  to  carry  passengers 
to  the  town  of  Millers ville  was  going  off  with  resignation. 
But  Ezriah  Meeks,  the  station-master,  had  lingered  on  the 
platform  to  prolong  the  excitement  of  "  train- time,"  and  he 
caught  Silas's  words. 

"Is  she  gone  for  long?"  he  inquired,  with  respectful  interest. 

Silas  enjoyed  the  full  content  of  the  mistake  before  cor- 
recting it.  He  was  a  farmer  of  the  prosperous,  comfortable 
class,  but  he  had  never  acquired  the  roundness  nor  the  restful 
stolidity  which  often  result  from  prosperity. 

"  Who  gone?"  he  began,  with  humorous  deliberation,  but  ended 
by  giving  up  the  pretense  of  not  understanding.  "Lucy? 
Well,  yes,  she's  gone  too  long  to  suit  me  and  her  mother.     Did 

1  Reprinted  from  Harper's  Magazine  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  editors 
iuid  of  the  author. 


178  THE  CHAPERON 

she  mention"  —  an  acquired  caution,  due  to  many  reproofs 
at  home  for  his  loquacity,  appeared  in  Silas's  tone  —  "  that 
she's  goin'  t'  the  city  to  hev  her  picture  took?" 

The  station-master  realized  that  if  he  wished  to  hear  the  news 
there  was  a  need  for  diplomacy  on  his  own  part.  He  was  not 
without  a  gift  for  it  —  bequeathed  him  perhaps  by  his  mother, 
who  had  solved  the  problem  of  naming  him  for  his  two  grand- 
fathers, Ezra  and  Uriahj  at  a  single  stroke.  "No,"  he  said, 
cautiously.  "I  can't  say  that  she  did  exactly" — he  added, 
as  a  shade  of  reticence  passed  over  the  farmer's  face.  "I'm 
tumble  busy  around  here,"  he  hinted,  "just  before  the  train 
comes  in." 

The  happy  thought  that  lack  of  opportunity  was  the  only 
thing  that  had  prevented  Lucy's  confidence  succeeded  with 
her  father.  It  fell  in  with  his  own  desire  to  talk,  and,  as  with 
many  parents,  his  sense  of  humor  weakened  as  the  subject  of 
discussion  approached  his  child. 

"She's  gone  to  hev  it  did,"  he  imparted,  walking  to  a  place 
on  the  platform  from  which  he  could  keep  an  eye  upon  his 
horses.  "Her  and  her  mother  has  been  plannin'  it  out,"  he 
went  on,  sitting  down  upon  a  baggage- truck,  "down  to  the 
last  detail.     It'll  take  about  a  month,  they  reckon." 

"I  thought  they  struck  'em  off  in  less  time  than  that,"  said 
Ezriah.     "Is  it  cabinet  photographs?" 

"No,  it  ain't  cabinets,"  said  Silas.  "As  far  as  I  make  out 
it's  a  painted  photograph.  There 's  only  one  of  it.  A  porterate 
—  that's  the  word."  Ezriah  gazed  without  blinking,  but  his 
face  did  not  light  up.  "I  hain't  lent  much  time  to  it,"  Silas 
apologized,  "but  I  hear  'em  talking  it  over  in  the  evenin's  after 
the  city  paper's  come.  It  was  a  kind  of  prize  contest  —  a 
little  kewpon  in  each  day.  I  steer  off  from  such  things  myself; 
they  tantalize  your  wits  only  to  disappoint  you.  But  women 
will  risk  disappointment  any  day  to  be  amused.  I  don't 
deny  in  this  case  that  they  got  their  reward." 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  179 

"Was  it  something  that  you  git  with  soap?"  inquired  Ezriah. 

His  friend  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment.  "With  soap? 
Soap!"  He  recovered  himself  with  difficulty.  "Well,  I  guess 
I'd  hev  set  foot,  down  myself  on  soap.  But  Mehala!  And 
Lucy!  Why,  they  ain't  a  soap  a.vtik\e  made  that  Mehala  'd 
think  was  good  enough  to  rest  Lucy's  little  slippers  on.  This 
was,  as  I  make  out,  a  high-class  thing  —  kewpons  and  all. 
It  wasn't  more  than  four  lines  in  the  paper  every  day,  but  four 
lines  in  a  city  paper,  Mehala  says,  is  better  than  a  page.  Only 
the  right  people  see  it  then,  she  says." 

11  She  seen  it,"  agreed  Ezriah,  with  the  evident  intention  of 
flattery.  He  was  a  friend  of  Mehala  Rand  as  well  as  of  her 
husband,  and  he  had  had  no  intention  of  reflecting  upon  her 
taste. 

Silas  was  mollified.  "She's  seen  every  word  in  the  paper," 
he  said,  with  affectionate  pride,  "since  Brother  Jed  began  to 
send  it  to  us  fifteen  years  ago.  She's  a  reader  —  Mehala  is  — ■ 
and  Lucy's  kind  of  inherited  it.  You  and  I'd  'a'  missed  them 
kewpons,  Ezriah.  They  was  away  down  on  the  society  page. 
'For  the  poor  of  St.  Stephen's  parish,'  it  said.  A  woman's 
society  had  the  runnin'  of  the  thing.  You  remember  the 
bazaar  that  the  ladies  of  Hope  Church  held  over  here,  and 
raffled  off  a  cake.  That's  what  this  was,  only  there  wasn't 
any  bazaar  nor  any  cake.  You  puzzled  out  a  kewpon  every 
day  and  sent  it  in  with  a  triflin'  sum,  and  the  prize  was  your 
picture  painted  by  a  man  whose  business  ginerally  is  to  paint 
the  rich,  but  who  was  willin'  to  give  this  to  St.  Stephen's  poor. 
I  reckon  the  women  folks  wheedled  it  out  of  him.  They  like 
to  get  their  hands  upon  your  pocketbook.  They  didn't  give 
this  picture  to  the  winner  for  nothing  —  they  was  a  ten-dollar 
clause  attached  to  it.  That's  why  I  took  it.  You  don't  git 
anything  for  nothing,  I  told  the  folks,  but  for  ten  — " 

"Did  Lucy  git  the  prize?"  asked  Ezriah. 

"'Twas  strange,"  said  Silas,  "with  half  the  city  goin'  crazy 


i8o  THE  CHAPERON 

over  this  man's  work  —  we  read  about  that  one  day  in  another 
place  in  the  paper  —  this  prize  come  to  a  rooral  district." 

"Maybe  the  society  folks  didn't  try  for  it,"  Ezriah  sug- 
gested.    "I've  heard  there's  a  lot  of  false  pride  amongst  them." 

"Maybe  so,"  said  Silas.  "And  maybe  Lucy  and  her  mother 
was  too  shrewd  for  them.  They  did  it  for  the  fun  at.  first  — 
puzzlin'  it  out.  Then  it  seemed  a  pity  not  to  send  the  kewpons 
in.  Lucy  thought  it  was  amusin';  her  mother  took  it  a  good 
deal  more  serious.  But  they  both"  —  Silas  chuckled  at  the 
memory  —  "looked  scared  when  the  prize  letter  come." 

"And  Lucy  packed  right  up  and  went,"  said  Ezriah,  expressing 
what  his  own  impulse  would  have  been. 

"Well,  no!"  Silas  rose  and  began  to  move  toward  his  horses. 
His  friend  followed  him  hungrily.  "No;  that  was  where  the 
rub  come  in.  When  it  come  to  the  p'int  o'  that,  it  seemed  that 
Lucy  had  been  countin'  on  her  mother's  porterate.  And  Me- 
hala  had  been  cherishin'  —  like  the  strawberry  jam  she's  got 
down-cellar  —  the  idee  of  hevin'  Lucy  took.  She'd  planned  it 
out  —  Mehala  had.  She  wanted  Lucy  in  her  new  lawn  dress. 
It  made  her  nearly  sick  when  Lucy  said  she  wouldn't  go.  They 
never  would  'a'  reached  a  p'int  o'  view,  I  guess,  if  I  hadn't 
settled  it."  Silas  untied  the  horses  and  climbed  into  the  buggy. 
For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  Ezriah  was  to  be  left  starving  for 
the  last  details. 

"Did  you  pick  Lucy  out?"  he  asked,  invitingly. 

Silas  reproved  so  easy  a  solution.  "I  was  settin'  one  night 
listenin'  to  'em  arguin'.  Lucy  ain't  much  to  argue:  she  just 
gives  a  kind  o' sad  little 'no.'  But  she  means  it.  And  Mehala 
was  nigh  hysteriky.  I  remarked  that  I  guessed  that  was  about 
what  the  poor  of  St.  Stephen's  parish  and  those  women  had 
expected  it  to  come  to.  They  thought  the  offer  might  be 
turned  back  in  on  them  —  none  to  blame  but  them  that  refused 
it! — and  they  wouldn't  be  out  nothin'  at  all.  There's  some 
money  in  them  kewpons  —  the  Lord  knows  how  they  calcylate 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  181 

it  out!  Mehala  near  collapsed  to  hear  me  talk  so.  But  Lucy 
stiffened  up  a  mite.  I  seen  her  mouth  tighten  like  when  on 
occasion  she  has  to  help  me  separate  old  Bossy  and  the  calf. 
Lucy's  a  tender-hearted  little  thing,  but  she  can  do  when  she 
sets  her  mind  to  it.  What  does  she  say  after  a  minute  but  thet 
she'll  go!  Mehala  set  there  lookin'  at  her,  like  some  one  afraid 
to  jiggle  a  piece  o'  chiny  for  fear  that  it  might  break.  But 
Lucy  kept  her  mind  made  up.  She's  goin'  to  visit  Jed's  folks 
while  she's  there.  That  was  a  part  of  Mehala's  plan.  I  was 
glad  it  was  settled  so,"  said  judicial  Silas,  "for  Mehala's  sake. 
Lucy  looks  right  pretty  in  that  new  lawn  dress.  It's  white  and 
soft,  with  a  sprig  of  blue  in  it  — " 

"She'll  make  a  sightly  picture,"  said  Ezriah,  drawing  back 
from  the  muddy  wheels  and  watching  them  begin  to  move. 
"Let  me  know  when  she  comes  back  with  it." 

"I  reckon  you'd  know  when  she  was  comin',"  said  Silas, 
"by  the  look  o'  Mehala's  face  and  mine.  We're  lonesome 
as  whippoor wills  without  her."  He  touched  the  horses  re- 
luctantly, as  if  he  saw  the  lonely  house  ahead  of  him.  "Mehala 
will  be  waitin'.  She's  had  her  way  about  the  picture;  I  don't 
doubt  she's  kind  o'  regrettin'  it  now.  Hevin'  your  own  way 
ain't  always  the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world." 

Ezriah  was  in  no  danger  of  mistaking  the  day  that  was 
bringing  Lucy  home.  Silas  arrived  at  the  station  an  hour  be- 
fore the  train,  and,  seated  on  the  baggage-truck,  added  to  his 
story  of  the  portrait  certain  details  furnished  by  Lucy's  letters 
since  the  sittings  had  begun.  The  month  allowed  in  Mehala's 
calculations  had  lengthened  into  six  weeks,  owing  to  the  fact, 
as  Silas  put  it,  that  "the  settin's  hadn't  come  regular,  but  only 
off  and  on." 

"It's  like  the  dentists,  I  presoom,"  said  Ezriah.  "Some 
days  they  hev  you  and  some  days  they  don't." 

"A  line  o'  miserable  sufferers  comin'  in  between,"  elaborated 
Silas,  always  pleased  with  a  flight  of  the  imagination.     "This 


182  THE  CHAPERON 

ain't,  of  course,  a  busy  season  for  the  artists,"  he  went  on, 
in  a  more  practical  vein.  "Most  of  their  subjects,  it  seems,  are 
off  to  Europe.  Some  of  the  artists  go  along.  But  this  one, 
Lucy  says,  is  dreadful  earnest  in  his  work,  and  he's  got  some  on 
hand,  he  told  her,  that  he  was  goin'  to  finish  if  it  took  all  sum- 
mer. He  must  be  an  interestin'  fellow,  along  with  his  paintin' 
work.     Lucy  says  she  enjoys  just  to  set  and  watch." 

"Did  she  say  how  many  settin's  it  would  take?"  asked 
Ezriah,  giving  a  critical  turn  to  his  inquiries.  "It  don't  seem 
scarcely  reasonable  that  he  should  expect  Lucy  to  take  all 
summer  to  it,  too.  Does  Lucy"  —  Ezriah  was  emboldened 
to  a  still  more  scientific  doubt  —  "admire  of  his  work?" 

Silas  drew  down  his  brows  in  an  effort  to  remember.  "She 
says  —  Shoo!  I  thought  I  had  her  letter  here.  Well,  she 
says  she  can't  tell  exactly  what  it's  like,  because  it's  just  her. 
I  guess  I  can  tell,  if  it  is  her.  She  says  the  colors,  though, 
stand  out  soft  like  the  mist  over  the  marsh  in  the  early  morn- 
ings. An'  she  says  her  mother  will  like  the  face.  If  it  satisfies 
Mehala" — Silas  gave  a  comprehensive  sigh  —  "I  reckon 
they  ain't  no  question  of  the  picture.  Anyway,  it's  done. 
I'm  glad  o'  that.  Times  when  it  looked  to  me,  ez  you  say, 
ez  it  would  take  all  summer  to  the  job.  Lucy  would  write, 
'I  go  to-morrow,'  or,  'I  went  yesterday,'  to  the  stoodio,  and 
there  was  no  mention  of  any  end  to  it.  But  it  come  apparently 
—  like  all  things,  except  the  judgment  day." 

"I  hope  Lucy  didn't  hurry  the  feller  at  the  last,"  said  Ezriah, 
treacherously  turning  upon  his  former  attitude.  "I've  knowed 
good  jobs  spoiled  by  people  gittin'  nervous  over  'em." 

"I  don't  guess  that  Lucy '11  hev  made  any  mistake,"  said  Silas, 
happily.  "  She  may  've  got  a  bit  homesick.  When  she  was  at 
the  'cademy  at  Meedville,  she  used  to  fret  for  Mehala  and  me. 
I'm  glad  the  picture's  done.  We  may  run  on  for  several 
months  now  before  the  women  gets  another  idee." 

Ezriah  busied  himself  actively  with  the  mail-bags  as  the 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  183 

train  rushed  in.  He  did  not  confess  it  to  others,  but  he  had  a 
private  superstition  against  expecting  pleasure  to  arrive  with 
any  train;  it  was  like  waiting  for  your  ship  to  come  in. 

But  Silas  was  not  disappointed;  Lucy  was  the  only  pas- 
senger that  did  alight.  Silas  stood  watching  for  her,  only  his 
eyes  showing  his  pleasure  when  her  small  blue-gowned  figure 
appeared.  She  looked  for  him  eagerly  as  she  came  down  the 
steps,  and  he  claimed  her  with  a  humorous  little  gesture  that 
made  the  women  at  the  car  windows  stare  with  interest  at  the 
two. 

She  was  a  delicate-looking  girl,  in  contrast  with  her  father's 
sturdy  vigor.  But  she  had  a  vigor  of  her  own  —  of  the  sort 
that  makes  for  grace  instead  of  strength  or  bulk.  She  looked 
like  a  healthy  flower  which  has  been  sheltered  in  its  growth. 
Silas  and  Mehala  had  evidently  felt  the  responsibility  of  such  a 
charge:  they  had  been  tender  in  their  touch.  The  girl's  face 
showed  beneath  a  veil  of  shyness  the  fearlessness  of  innocent 
thought. 

Outwardly  she  had,  as  much  as  anything  else,  a  look  which 
women  would  have  united  to  call  "nice."  Her  father  —  and 
perhaps  men  in  general  —  would  have  thought  the  word  too 
mild.  Whatever  she  seemed  to  others,  she  was  altogether  pleas- 
ing to  his  eyes.  He  looked  her  up  and  down  as  he  took  her 
small  travelling-bag. 

"  I  come  in  the  spring- wagon,"  he  said,  apologetically.  "  Your 
mother  said  'twa'n't  no  way  to  bring  you  home.  But  the 
trunk  was  to  be  considered,  and  I  had  to  make  a  trip  to  the  mill." 

Lucy  put  her  hand  lovingly  into  his  arm.  She  looked  tired 
and  excited. 

"As  if  I  minded,  father,  how  you've  come!  Only,  do  let's 
be  quick.  It  is  so  good" — she  spoke  with  faint  but  eager 
preoccupation  —  "to  be  at  home." 

Silas  was  gazing  with  head  on  one  side,  at  the  trunk.  "Is 
the  picture  in  that?"    He  was  radiant  with  good  feeling  and 


1 84  THE  CHAPERON 

realized  expectation.  "I've  been  telling  Ezriah  about  it. 
I  reckon  we  couldn't  take  it  out?" 

"It  isn't  there,"  said  Lucy.     "It  is  —  " 

"Comin'  by  express,"  anticipated  Silas,  anxious  to  acknowl- 
edge that  his  hopes  had  been  too  high.  "  Well,  I  'd  always  ruther 
bring  my  parcels  home  under  my  arm.  You  do  feel  safer. 
But  it  ain't  the  way  of  this  day  and  generation.  Mehala 
won't  expect  it.     She's  more  modern  in  her  views." 

"It'll  be  safe  enough  if  it  comes  my  way,"  said  Ezriah, 
helping  Silas  put  the  trunk  in  the  wagon.  "I  sha'n't  lose 
no  time  in  notifyin'  you." 

Lucy  had  climbed  without  assistance  to  the  wagon  seat. 
She  sat  lightly  erect,  looking  across  the  sunny  wheat-fields. 
Silas  clambered  over  the  wheel  and  settled  himself  beside  her. 
He  glanced  back  at  Ezriah,  and  was  evidently  about  to  extend 
another  cheerful  invitation  to  a  private  view,  when  he  felt 
Lucy's  hand  laid  suddenly  upon  his. 

"Don't  say  anything  more  about  the  picture,  father  — 
please!     I  haven't  brought  it  home." 

Silas  turned  a  jovial  face  toward  her  as  the  horses  swung  into 
the  road.  "Bless  your  soul,  child;  I  never  thought  you  would. 
I  was  only  talkin'  to  Ezriah.  We  chat  each  other  a  good  deal 
that  way.  I  'd  just  as  soon  —  I  'd  ruther  it  'd  come  later  than 
you.    It's  like  gittin'  two  prize  packages  'stid  o'  one." 

Lucy  had  a  patient  look.  "  But,  father  —  I  thought  I  should  save 
it  to  tell  mother,  but  I  believe  it  is  easier  to  tell  you  —  it  isn  't 
coming  at  all  —  the  picture.     I  didn't  stay  to  let  it  be  finished." 

Silas  puckered  his  mouth  to  whistle,  but  he  made  no  sound. 
His  face  had  grown  attentive.  Now  that  he  had  time  to  think 
of  it,  he  realized  that  Lucy  had  what  he  would  have  called  a 
"worry  on  her  mind." 

"Didn't  you  like  the  picture,  dearie?"  he  asked,  in  his  mildest 
tone.  He  gave  a  flick  of  the  whip  across  the  horses'  backs, 
to  imply  that  the  question  was  a  casual  one. 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  185 

Lucy  hesitated.  "Like  it?  Oh,  father  — "  an  eagerness 
began  to  tremble  in  her  tone,  but  she  held  it  back.  "You  see, 
father"  —  she  tried  to  make  her  tone  judicial  —  "Mr.  Ark- 
wright  is  a  great  painter  —  a  well-known  painter  —  though 
he  is  not  old.  You  couldn  't  question  his  work.  He  has  painted 
famous  people  —  " 

"Paints  blue  satin  better  —  likely,"  said  Silas,  "than  a  clump 
o'  johnny-jump-ups  in  the  woods."  He  was  stiffening  a  little 
at  the  hint  of  self-depreciation  in  Lucy's  words. 

A  smile  came  into  Lucy's  eyes.  "He  painted  some  flowers 
in  my  hands  —  blue  gentians  —  that  even  you,  father,  would 
have  thought  came  from  our  woods." 

Silas  sighed  as  if  at  the  picture.  "Blue  gentians."  He  had 
a  moment's  wonder.     "They  don't  grow  in  towns." 

"No;  he  got  them  somewhere,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  girl's 
simplicity.     "He  wanted  them  for  the  picture  very  much." 

Silas  looked  up  suddenly  from  his  reflections.  "Did  you 
pay  him  the  ten  dollars,  Lucy?" 

Lucy  grew  pale,  and  then  painfully  crimson.  "No,  I  didn't 
— "  The  pleasure  had  gone  out  of  her  face.  "I  didn't  — 
I  couldn't,  father.    That  was  one  of  the  things  I  couldn't  do." 

"It  didn't  seem  enough?"  Silas  nodded  his  head  gently 
to  indicate  that  he  knew  just  what  such  scruples  were.  He 
kept  on  nodding  it.  "And  yit  —  and  yit  —  it  seems  as  if 
he'd  earned  it  —  if  'twa'n't  enough." 

"Enough!"  said  Lucy.  Her  tone  swelled  with  meaning, 
then  fell  as  if  before  a  task  too  great. 

Silas  was  still  shrewdly  attentive.  "Did  you  come  away, 
honey,  because  you  felt  that  way?  As  if  you  wasn't  payin' 
for  the  picture  right?" 

His  patience  touched  the  girl's  sense  of  duty.  She  answered 
simply:  "No,  I  didn't,  father.  I  did  feel  that  at  first,  and  it 
was  hard.  Mother  hadn't  imagined  what  it  would  be.  She 
thought  only  about  having  the  picture.     But  I  tried  to  be 


1 86  THE  CHAPERON 

sensible.  I  was  ashamed  of  being  ashamed.  The  agreement 
was  what  it  was,  and  I  tried  to  be  business-like  about  it.  Mr. 
Arkwright  didn't  make  it  hard.  He  didn't  seem  to  think 
anything  about  the  terms  of  the  picture,  after  it  was  begun. 
He  —  he  seemed  glad  to  work  upon  it.  And  I  meant  —  I 
meant  to  give  him  the  ten  dollars.  But  at  the  last  —  when 
I  came  away  so  —  so  suddenly  —  "    Her  voice  began  to  falter. 

Silas  asserted  a  stronger  claim.  "What  made  you  come  away, 
honey?" 

The  girl's  answer  seemed  irrelevant.  "Some  of  his  friends 
came  one  day  —  a  girl  and  her  mother  —  "  Lucy  suddenly 
broke  off,  and  addressed  her  father  in  an  almost  impersonal 
way.  "Father,  do  you  believe  that  a  person  can  do  a  wrong 
thing  —  or  a  thing  that  has  the  appearance  of  being  wrong  — 
without  having  any  idea  at  all  that  it  is  wrong?" 

Silas  was  drawn  beyond  his  resistance  by  discussion:  it  was 
the  tree  of  temptation  for  him;  and  though  he  was  still  con- 
centrated intensely  upon  finding  out  what  was  troubling  Lucy, 
he  saw  no  harm  in  stepping  aside  for  a  moment  to  follow  out  a 
"line  o'  thought." 

He  seldom  committed  himself,  however,  early  in  an  argument. 
"There's  a  heap  o'  crime  committed  in  ignorance,"  he  said, 
wisely,  and  paused  to  catch  up  a  doubtful  thread.  "But 
there  is  things  that  looks  wrong  —  a  plenty  —  that  ain't  wrong, 
neither." 

"There  are  things  that  are  wrong  because  they  look  wrong," 
said  Lucy,  with  sudden  intensity. 

Her  father  bent  a  doubtful  gaze  upon  her.  "Not  accordin' 
to  regular  law,  honey."  He  gave  her  a  whimsical  but  tender 
smile.     "That's  some  kind  of  a  woman's  law." 

"It's  social  law,"  said  Lucy. 

"Well,  we  ain't  socialists,"  said  Silas.  He  was  uncertain 
himself  whether  he  had  made  a  joke  or  not. 

The  girl  began  again. 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  187 

"Father,  if  a  man  should  come  along  and  pass  through  one 
of  our  gates,  and  leave  it  open;  or  let  down  the  bars  —  " 

"Some  city  foo  —  fellow?"  asked  Silas,  following  intently. 

"What  would  you  think  of  him?"  asked  Lucy. 

Silas  considered.  "Well,  I  should  say — first  —  he  didn't 
know  no  better  —  " 

"You  would  despise  him,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  cold  kind  of 
triumph. 

"No  —  no  —  "  Silas  rejected  this  as  too  harsh.  "No,  I 
shouldn't  despise  him.  I  should  just  say  he  didn't  know  no 
better,  and  —  and  —  " 

"But  if  he  left  the  way  open,"  cried  the  girl,  unconsciously 
combining  literal  and  figurative,  "to  misjudgment  of  not  only 
himself,  but  of  his  —  his  people  —  " 

Silas  was  intent  for  once  upon  the  literal.  "Of  course,  if  he 
let  something  loose  — "  He  paused,  suspecting  a  pitfall. 
The  girl's  face  was  so  bitterly  intent  upon  him.  Silas  suddenly 
struck  for  a  harmless  way  out.  "I  should  just  say,  honey, 
that  he  warn't  to  blame  to  any  great  degree  —  though  ignorance 
ain't  no  excuse  in  the  eyes  o'  the  law  —  exceptin'  just,  in  my 
opinion,  so  far  ez  he  was  to  blame  fer  goirf  into  places  he  didn't 
know  about." 

Lucy  sank  back  against  the  narrow  bar  of  the  wagon  seat. 
She  waited  a  moment  before  speaking.  "That's  why  I  came 
home,  father,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet,  restrained  voice.  "Because 
—  because  I  never  should  have  gone." 

The  turn  of  conversation  was  too  quick  for  Silas.  "Never 
should  'a'  gone?"  he  repeated,  vaguely. 

"Not  in  the  way  I  did,"  said  Lucy;  "to  the  studio,  I  mean. 
Alone." 

"Alone!"     A  sudden  flash  of  trouble  appeared  in  Silas's  face. 

The  girl  caught  the  gleam  of  it  without  analyzing  it.  "Per- 
haps you  would  say  there  was  no  harm  done,  father.  It's 
just  —  just  the  #ay  I  feel  about  it.     It's  not  the  way  things 


1 88  THE  CHAPERON 

are  done  in  the  oity,  that's  all.  Girls  don't  go  about  so.  It 
gives  a  wrong  impression." 

In  his  anxious  bewilderment,  Silas  —  for  one  of  the  few  times 
in  his  life  —  spoke  a  word  of  blame  to  her.  "What  made  ye 
go,  then,  Lucy?" 

She  saw  no  injustice  in  this.  Her  defence  of  herself  was  only 
half-hearted.  "I  didn't  know  about  it.  At  least  I  had  only 
read  it  —  I  remembered  that  afterward  —  in  novels.  I  didn't 
think,  somehow,  of  it  as  real,  and  as  ever  touching  me." 

Silas  was  recovering  himself.  "Well,  I  guess  it  ain't  touched 
you  yit"  —  his  need  of  reassurance  took  the  form  of  aggressive 
self-assertion  —  "to  do  ye  any  hurt." 

"No,"  said  Lucy.  Her  delicate  face  smoothed  itself  into  a 
look  of  firm  cheerfulness.  She  tried  to  speak  with  lightness. 
"No,  it's  only  a  matter  of  feeling  better  or  worse  over  a  blunder. 
It's  making  another  to  grieve  about  the  first." 

Seeing  her  so  reasonable  roused  a  thirst  in  Silas  for  some  one 
to  vent  his  wrath  upon.  "What  made  ye  feel  this,  honey? 
Did  that  —    I  thought  you  said  he  —  " 

"It  was  the  young  lady  that  I  spoke  of,"  said  Lucy,  as  if  the 
detail  were  of  no  importance  to  her.  "She  came  with  her 
mother  to  see  a  picture.  She  found  me  resting  —  reading  a 
book.  She  seemed" — Lucy  flushed  —  "to  like  my  portrait. 
I  heard  her  say  it  was  —  lovely.  Then  —  she  said  something 
to  her  mother.  She  ,  didn't  mean  me  to  hear.  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Mr.  Arkwright  heard  it,  too  —  he  was  coming  from 
the  other  room." 

"What  could  she  say?"  asked  Silas.  He  glanced  from  the 
girl's  face  down  at  her  dress,  and  at  her  face  again,  helpless 
to  find  anything  to  warrant  a  sneer. 

Lucy  was  patient,  like  a  tired  child,  with  his  wonder.  "It 
was  something  about  a  chaperon." 

"A  shappy-roan!"  said  Silas.  It  seemed  to  him  an  irrelevant 
reference  to  horses. 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  189 

"It's  the  person  who  goes  along,"  said  Lucy.  "That  young 
lady's  mother  was  her  chaperon." 

"Oh!"  said  Silas.  A  sudden  and  most  unusual  sharpness 
cut  into  his  drawling  tone.  "Well,  I'm  glad  she  had  some- 
body to  take  care  o'  her"  His  anger  increased  at  the  sound  of 
itself  spoken.     "What  did  you  say  back  to  her,  honey?" 

Lucy  gazed,  astonished.  "Why,  father!"  But  a  slight  flush 
burned  in  her  own  face  at  the  memory.  "I  didn't  say  any- 
thing, of  course.  I  —  I  went  away  very  soon.  Mr.  Arkwright 
introduced  me  to  them.  And  —  I  said  I  had  to  go.  I  forgot 
about  staying  for  the  sitting.  I  meant  to  go  back  —  or  to 
write  a  note  to  say  I  hadn't  realized  —  I  meant  to  send  the 
money.  But  I  couldn't  —  somehow  I  couldn't  do  any  of  those 
things.  I  wanted  to  come  home.  And  I  did.  And  I  can't  go 
back,  father"  —  the  girl's  self-control  suddenly  broke  with  a 
trembling  little  cry  —  "ever.     You  mustn't  ask  me  to." 

"I  sha'n't  ask  you  to,"  said  Silas.  He  was  turning  grimly 
over  in  his  mind  the  new  word  he  had  learned.  New  words 
and  new  ideas  made  themselves  quickly  at  home  with  him; 
he  was  so  hospitable  to  them.  "I  reckon  your  mother  could 
'a'  been  one  —  one  of  those  things,"  he  ventured. 

"Yes,"  Lucy  agreed.     "Mother,  or  Aunt  Barbara  —  or  you!" 

"Me!"  said  Silas,  overwhelmed. 

Lucy  showed  a  new  dread  as  they  drew  near  a  curve  in  the 
hedge-bordered  road  which  hid  them  from  their  house.  "  Mother 
will  mind  so  much  about  the  picture!" 

Silas  urged  the  horses  on.  "Mehala  ain't  no  fool."  He 
modified  his  statement  unconsciously  by  adding,  "We'll  tell 
it  to  her  gradual." 

"I  couldn't  bear  that  she  should  be  blamed,"  said  Lucy, 
"  that  he  —  that  they  —  should  think  she  didn't  know.  It 
was  my  place  to  know.  I  am  younger"  —  she  was  uncon- 
scious of  expressing  anything  so  broad  as  the  social  code  of  the 
new  world  —  "and  it  was  my  place  to  know.     She  ought  to 


iqo  THE  CHAPERON 

blame  me  —  I  don't  mind  her  blaming  me.  But  she  believed 
so  in  me  —  it  will  hurt  her."  The  girl  struck  her  hands  softly 
together  as  if  over  an  intolerable  regret.  "I  can't  bear  to  hurt 
her.  But"  —  a  sudden  suspicion  of  her  father's  meditative 
silence  made  her  flash  round  upon  him  fervidly  —  "I  want  her 
to  be  told  the  truth." 

"The  truth!"  Silas  was  growing  calmer,  like  a  sailor  who, 
after  a  hard  voyage,  begins  to  draw  into  port.  He  indulged  a 
tender  chuckle.  "  You  nee'n'  to  worry.  You  know  yer  mother's 
quiet  in  her  way.  But  if  we  tried  to  keep  her  back  from  it  with 
red-hot  irons,  I  guess  she  would  get  at  the  truth." 

The  road  to  Rand's  Crossing  was  not,  in  late  August,  the 
road  that  it  had  been  in  mid-April  and  May.  Silas  and  his 
horses,  usually  a  complacent  trio,  yielded  to  an  air  of  boredom 
as  they  jogged  home  from  the  mill  one  afternoon,  a  month  after 
Lucy's  return.  Yet  Silas  was  not  altogether  without  reason 
for  self-content.  He  had  resisted  turning  aside  at  the  station 
for  a  chat  with  Ezriah,  and  his  conscience  was  patting  him  on 
the  back.  It  was  like  a  reward  of  merit  when,  rounding  a 
curve,  he  saw  ahead  of  him  an  unfamiliar  figure,  hat  in  hand, 
walking  in  the  grass  beside  the  road. 

He  stared  critically  at  the  pedestrian. 

"Ain't  got  sense  enough  to  keep  his  hat  on  fer  shade  'stid 
o'  takin'  it  off  fer  air  when  they  ain't  none.  And  kicks  that 
weed-dust  up  around  his  legs  because  he  'magines  that  the  road 
is  worse."  The  farmer  quickened  the  pace  of  his  horses  toward 
this  misguided  infant  of  the  road. 

"Hev  a  ride?"  he  called,  as  the  man,  without  glancing  round, 
stepped  farther  aside  to  let  the  wagon  pass.  "Used  to  gettin' 
out  of  the  way  of  kerridges,"  reasoned  Silas,  continuing  his 
favorite  amusement  of  analyzing  human  beings  as  scientists  ana- 
lyze peculiar  bugs.     "  Reckon  he  thinks  this  is  an  omynibus." 

The  man  in  the  road  lifted  a  preoccupied  face,  which  lighted 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  191 

up  in  a  moment  with  pleasant  gratitude.  "Thanks.  I  should 
like  it  very  much."  He  swung  himself  up  over  the  wheel  with 
a  dexterity  yet  somewhat  foreign  to  that  form  of  exercise. 
"It  was  getting  pretty  stiff  along  here  where  there  isn't  any 
shade."  His  face  betrayed  beneath  a  superficial  coat  of 
crimson  the  dawning  pallor  due  to  unaccustomed  exposure  to 
the  sun. 

"It's  the  hottest  road  between  Jerusalem  and  Jericho,"  said 
Silas.  He  busied  himself  with  the  buckle  of  the  lines  to  allow 
the  other  a  moment  for  recovery.  "There's  a  breeze  up  here 
on  the  wagon  seat,  though.  That's  why  I  took  pity  on  you 
down  there  on  the  level." 

The  stranger  smiled.  "I'm  not  such  a  bad  walker  when  I'm 
in  trim,"  he  said,  with  the  city's  man  fear  of  being  considered 
unathletic.  "But  I've  been  sticking  close  to  my  work.  It 
makes  a  man  a  little  soft." 

The  farmer  had  none  of  this  physical  pridew  "Don't  reckon 
I've  walked  along  this  road  for  twenty  years.  Daisy  and  Nell 
are  good  enough  for  me."     He  slapped  the  horses. 

"They  are  so  much  too  good  for  me,"  said  the  young  man  — 
he  was  about  thirty,  Silas  calculated  from  casual  glances  at 
his  thoughtful,  clean-shaven  face  — "  that  they  might  be 
drawing  a  chariot  dropped  from  heaven.  I  wonder  if  you  are 
going  as  far  as  to  Mr.  Silas  Rand's?" 

Silas  had  a  moment  of  keen  enjoyment. 

"I'm  going  jest  thet  far,"  he  allowed,  after  a  silence. 

The  stranger  turned  a  quick,  inquiring  face.  "Are  you 
Mr.  Rand  himself?"  There  was  a  note  of  pleasure  in  his  voice 
that  conquered  Silas.  "I  might  have  guessed  it,"  the  young 
man  went  on,  with  frank  apology,  "if  I  hadn't  been  so  done 
up."  He  permitted  himself  an  eager  scrutiny  of  the  farmer's 
face.  "I  was  thinking  —  in  fact,  I  was  thinking  up.  I  haven't 
thought  up  anything  yet,"  he  confessed,  "to  say.  But  I 
believed  it  would  come  to  me  on  the  road.    And  if  the  sun 


192  THE  CHAPERON 

hadn't  burned  all  my  senses  —  "  He  broke  off  again  with  a 
hopeless  smile  at  his  own  floundering.  "I  want  to  see  Miss 
Lucy  Rand." 

Silas  looked  up  with  deliberation.  "Did  you  come  to  see 
about  that  picture?"  He  also  indulged  himself  in  a  fuller 
gaze  into  the  other's  face.  It  was  a  pleasant-featured,  earnest 
face,  which  returned  his  gaze  without  boldness  yet  with  openness. 
Silas  concluded  that  he  liked  it;  he  allowed  his  keen  blue  eyes 
to  twinkle  forth  a  gleam  of  sympathy. 

The  young  man  caught  at  it  with  vehemence.  "You  know 
who  I  am,  then,  Mr.  Rand?  I  am,  of  course,  the  painter  of 
Miss  Rand's  portrait.  I've  finished  it  without  any  more 
sittings.    I've  run  down  to  —  to  see  about  it." 

"She  got  the  two  letters  that  you  wrote,  askin'  her  to  let  you 
finish  it,"  said  Silas.  He  gazed  off  into  a  neighboring  field. 
"I  guess  she  answered  ye." 

"Yes,  she  did,"  said  the  painter.  He  gave  a  short,  unquiet 
sigh,  and  spoke  as  if  to  himself.  "She  could  scarcely  have 
refused  me  that." 

"  She  got  quite  an  upset  down  there,"  said  Silas,  with  a  rather 
dry  but  not  unkindly  frankness.  "It  was  somethin'  that  a 
lady  said.  Lucy  ain't  used  to  criticism.  I  reckon"  — a  note 
betraying  a  real  concern  sounded  through  the  farmer's 
casual  tone  —  "we've  sort  o'  spoiled  her  for  the  world.  We 
didn't  know  none  of  the  fashions.  We  always  let  her  think 
that  she  was  all  right  so  long  as  she  was  sweet  and  good." 

"She  is  like  a  spirit,"  said  the  painter,  from  some  impulse  of 
his  own. 

Silas  gave  a  quick  glance  of  uneasiness.  "Yes,  and  yit  she 
ain't  a  spirit.  That's  the  way  with  girls.  Half  is  angel,  and 
the  other  half  is  interested  in  the  affairs  of  this  world.  Lucy's 
always  seemed  above  the  little  fault-findin's  of  women  —  she 
ain't  missed  all  o'  them  even  in  this  country  place  —  but  I 
'clare  the  child  looks  pret'  near  sick  refiectin'  on  the  words 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  193 

o'  that  young  lady  down  with  you.  I  reckon  she  had  a  grand 
way.    That  goes  right  to  a  woman's  heart." 

"She  has  the  way  of  thousands  of  people,"  said  the  painter, 
"who  get  their  opinions  ready-made;  they  haven't  the  power 
of  individual  judgment." 

"I  reckon  the'  was  a  little  rancor  in  her  speech,"  said  Silas, 
wistful  after  the  truth. 

The  painter  was  sternly  frank.  He  gazed  at  the  passing 
fields  for  a  moment,  then  shifted  his  position  abruptly.  "I 
was  to  blame,"  he  broke  out,  in  a  low  tone.  "Wretchedly  to 
blame." 

Silas  was  thoughtful.     "You  mean  you  ought  to  'a'  told  us?" 

The  delicacy  of  the  pronoun  struck  the  young  man  to  the 
heart.  "Yes,  I  mean"  —  he  lost  some  of  the  poise  which  he  had 
been  trying  to  maintain  —  "I  should  have  protected  her.  I 
knew  she  didn't  know.  And  yet  I  didn't  know  that,  either  — 
or  care!  I  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Rand"  —  the  young  man's 
words  became  more  resolute  as  they  became  more  coherent  — 
"I  never  thought  of  applying  any  such  ideas  to  her.  She  stood 
alone  from  the  moment  she  came  to  see  about  those  odd  arrange- 
ments for  the  picture.  I'd  forgotten  all  about  St.  Stephen's 
Guild.     But  she  made  the  arrangements  —  she  made  everything 

—  seem  simple  and  plain,  so  long  —  as  you  said  —  as  they  were 
good.  Women  of  that  sort,"  the  young  man  finished,  with 
a  young  man's  positiveness,  "are  not  meant  to  follow  rules. 
They  are  meant  to  make  them." 

"There  ain't  no  rule  too  good  for  Lucy,"  said  her  father. 
"That's  what  she's  bound  to  hev  us  grant.     Her  aunt  Barbara 

—  that's  the  aunt  she  visited  in  town  —  laughed  when  Lucy 
told  her  how  she  felt.  Barbara  said,  'Them  is  ways  for  society 
folk.'     But  Lucy  wouldn't  hev  it.     She  talked  to  me  about  it." 

"She  sees  beauty  in  convention,"  said  the  painter. 
Silas  was  quiet  for  a  moment.     "You  come  to  know  Lucy," 
he  said,  with  a  note  of  wonder  —  and  with  something  of  the 


194  THE  CHAPERON 

right  to  question  —  in  his  level  voice,  "pretty  well  durin'  the 
makin'  o'  thet  picture." 

"I  came  to  —  to  —  "  The  young  man  leaned  forward,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  palms  pressed  together,  and  stared 
at  the  green  dashboard  of  the  wagon.  Then  he  faced  the 
farmer.  "It  was  more  than  that,  Mr.  Rand.  That's  why  I 
came  down  to  see  you  —  to  ask  you  if  you  thought  she  — 
might  —  !  It  will  seem  too  short  a  time  to  you.  But"  —  he 
paused  to  make  himself  convincing  —  "I  haven't  cared  much 
all  my  life  for  anything  but  my  work ;  and  I  knew  when  she  came ! 
Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  like  a  flower,  or  a  spirit  from 
the  woods  —  I've  lived  a  good  deal  out-of-doors.  And  if 
she  —  "he  recalled  himself  from  his  excited  self-communion  to 
his  listener.  "I  should  expect  you  to  find  out  all  about  me, 
Mr.  Rand.  I'll  wait  —  if  she  —  We  were  congenial;  until  that 
wretched  happening,  I  believed  —  "  He  drew  himself  together 
finally.     "At  least,  I  want  to  have  my  chance." 

Silas  had  stopped  him  with  a  motion  of  the  hand.  "We're 
comin'  to  the  house  —  around  this  curve  —  right  there.  The 
folks  '11  come  out  as  quick's  they  hear  the  wagon  wheels.  I 
didn't  mean  to  shet  you  up,  young  man!"  Between  attention 
to  the  horses  and  to  the  strings  of  a  patent  gate  which  swung 
cleverly  open  ahead  of  them,  Silas  turned  his  head  to  give  his 
companion  a  keen  but  kindly  glance.  "I  won't  say  I  ain't 
been  inflooenced  by  your  p'int  o'  view.  I  make  up  my  mind 
quick  —  too  quick,  maybe,  sometimes  —  about  a  man.  But 
all  I  got  to  say  is  concerning  what  you've  said  to  me  —  you 
save  it  to  tell  her!" 

To  which  of  the  two  figures  on  the  farmhouse  porch  he  re- 
ferred it  might  not  have  been  plain  to  an  unbiased  listener. 
Lucy  and  her  mother  had  both  appeared,  the  former  coming 
ahead.  At  sight  of  the  wagon  she  stood  motionless  upon  the 
steps.  Mehala  moved  ahead  of  her,  gazing  with  an  increase 
of  interest.    The  men  saw  the  girl  put  her  hand  upon  her 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  195 

mother's  arm  and  draw  Mehala  back  to  her.  Silas  and  his 
companion  —  the  latter  had  become  unconsciously  in  Silas's 
mind  a  charge  —  left  the  wagon  in  care  of  a  farm-hand  whom 
Silas  hailed  cheerfully  as  "Job,"  and  came  through  an  inner 
gate  across  a  stretch  of  clipped  grass  to  the  porch. 

Lucy  grew  white  as  they  came.  But  her  face  betrayed  a 
light  which  was  infinitely  softer  and  more  penetrating  than 
a  smile.  Arkwright  himself  was  pale;  he  went  directly  to  her 
and  held  out  his  hand.  They  met,  as  young  people  do  under 
excitement,  oblivious  of  lookers-on. 

"The  picture  is  done,"  said  Arkwright,  selecting,  as  it  were, 
the  detail  from  a  multitude  of  things  in  his  mind. 

Lucy  replied  with  the  same  concentration  upon  a  safe  topic. 
"It  has  been  a  ridiculous  trouble  to  you." 

"I  picked  him  up  out  of  a  sun,"  said  Silas,  "that  was  tryin' 
to  reduce  him  to  a  p'int  where  he  couldn't  paint  a  fly.  Set  and 
be  comfortable,  Mr.  Arkwright."  The  farmer  had  renounced 
the  necessity  of  being  critical,  the  case  being  handed  over  to  the 
womenfolk. 

Arkwright  stood  looking  at  these  two;  Mehala  had  received 
him  with  a  quietly  scrutinizing  eye.  "There  is  a  train  back 
to  town  at  eleven,"  began  the  painter,  hurriedly.  "I'm  going 
to  walk  to  it.  I  can  walk  like  a  man,  under  a  moon.  But  — 
will  you  bear  with  me  till  then?" 

Silas's  lips  had  moved  to  frame  the  word  "to-morrow,"  but 
Mehala  anticipated  him.  "Silas  would  enjoy  right  well  to  take 
you  over  in  the  buggy."  She  made  the  visitor  at  home  with  a 
gesture  which  was  gracious  in  spite  of  being  rather  dry.  "  You're 
not  used  to  havin'  supper  in  the  city,  Mr.  Arkwright,  before 
the  sun  goes  down.  But  Lucy  and  I  was  just  gittin'  ours. 
We'll  go  in  and  lay  another  plate."  She  laid  her  hand  on 
Lucy's  arm;  the  two  moved  together  easily,  as  women  do  who 
are  used  to  working  with  each  other. 

Left  alone  with  his  guest  after  the  simple  meal,  Silas  smiled 


196  THE  CHAPERON 

at  him  with  rather  sheepish  comradeship.  "I  guess  she  thinks 
ye've  come  to  see  me,"  he  said,  and  again  the  authoritative 
pronoun  was  clear  only  to  himself. 

He  raised  his  glance  to  his  companion  and  found  the  younger 
man's  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  a  keen  appeal.  The  farmer 
rose  as  a  physician  might  respond  to  the  call  of  pain. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  and  see  about  the  pigs,"  he  said,  with  resolu- 
tion. Arkwright  made  no  reply.  Silas  stopped  in  the  doorway. 
"  I  '11  send  Lucy  here,"  he  said  with  elaborate  casualness.  "  She's 
always  keen  to  set  and  watch  the  stars  come  out." 

But  inside  the  house  he  became  less  certain  of  himself.  He 
made  his  way  rather  waveringly  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  found 
Mehala  straining  the  milk  from  the  buckets  into  large  shallow 
pans.    Lucy  stood  by,  watching  her. 

Silas  paused,  anxiously  studying  the  two.  "I'm  goin'  out 
to  help  Job  with  the  feedin',"  he  said  at  last.  He  jerked  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder.  "He's  out  there  by  himself.  Air 
ye  goin'  to  git  out  pretty  soon?" 

Lucy  gave  her  father  a  tremulous  glance.  "We're  going 
as  soon  as  mother  strains  the  milk." 

Mehala  straightened  from  her  task  and  took  off  her  apron. 
"I'm  ready  when  you  are,"  she  said,  rather  grimly,  to  the  girl. 
Silas  was  puzzled  by  Mehala.  He  watched  her  for  a  glance 
that  would  betray  her  secret  attitude.  She  gave  him  no  satis- 
faction. At  the  same  time  her  air  toward  Lucy  was  not  exactly 
a  confidential  one.  If  they  were  in  collusion  —  Silas  decided 
—  they  were  silently  so.  He  had  almost  the  feeling  that  they 
were  in  collusion  against  him.  He  went  toward  the  barnyard 
in  a  dejected  frame  of  mind. 

Mehala  led  the  way  to  the  porch.  Arkwright  rose  and  offered 
her  his  chair,  but  she  took  another  —  a  long-backed  rocking- 
chair  which  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  and  held  aloof  at  every 
other  point.  Mehala  seemed  to  find  it  as  comfortable  as  she 
had  any  right  to  expect.    Lucy  —  evidently  according  to  habit 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  197 

—  seated  herself  on  the  step  at  her  mother's  feet.  Arkwright, 
after  a  hesitation,  chose  a  place  at  the  other  end  of  the  step, 
facing  Lucy. 

"It  is  scarcely  safe  to  have  thoughts  in  this  silence,"  said  the 
painter.  "One  feels  as  if  they  might  be  overheard.  Is  that 
the  reason"  —  he  addressed  Mehala  with  a  smile  —  "that 
people  living  in  places  like  this  are  good?" 

"They're  not  so  good,"  said  Mehala.  She  looked  alert  for 
conversation.  Her  eyes  were  watchful  in  the  dusk,  like  a  cat's 
eyes  — with  the  quiet,  too,  of  a  cat.  "There's  a  lot  of  ugli- 
ness, Mr.  Arkwright,"  she  fixed  the  young  man  keenly,  "in 
places  that  look  peaceful  like  this.  People  that  come  out  for 
a  while  and  ride  along  between  the  hedges  only  see  the  pretty 
side.     They'd  see  the  other  soon  enough.     There's  ignorance 

—  and  dulness  —  " 

Lucy  exclaimed  with  quick  amazement:  "Mother!  You 
know  there's  no  place  that  you  love  so  well!" 

"You  can  love  better  sometimes  for  not  bein'  's  blind  as  a 
mole,"  replied  her  mother.  She  was  diverted  slightly  from 
her  course  by  the  girl's  interruption,  but  she  remained 
intense.  "We  are  slow.  We  are  backward  in  the  ways  of 
folks." 

"You  lose  very  little  by  that,"  said  Arkwright.  His  face, 
too,  had  grown  slightly  vigilant  in  the  twilight. 

"We're  not  used  to  many  kinds  of  vehicles,"  continued 
Mehala,  her  speech  showing  the  influence  of  her  husband's 
figurative  mind.  "We've  only  got  one  rule  of  the  road  — 
when  we  've  got  sense  to  have  any  at  all  —  that's  turn  to  the 
right." 

"It's  the  only  rule  that  is  absolutely  necessary,"  said  Ark- 
wright.    "The  others  are  outgrowths  of  it." 

A  crow  flew  across  the  fields  in  the  silence  and  above  the 
house  with  a  raucous  cry.  "There  was  a  wicked  thought!" 
said  Lucy,  looking  up.     She  was  not  tense  like  the  others. 


198  TlfE    CHAPERON 

Her  voice  had  a  contented,  relaxed  note.  For  the  first  time  her 
eyes  and  Arkwright's  met  in  a  smile,  which  seemed  to  make 
a  bridge  over  which  their  spirits  crossed. 

Mehala's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  them.  She  began  to  speak 
again  with  quiet  vigor. 

"I  don't  believe,"  she  said,  continuing  her  address  to  Ark- 
wright,  "  that  a  person  —  brought  up  like  me,  for  instance  — 
could  ever  learn  to  follow  all  the  little  rules  that  have  been 
added  on.  It's  for  them  that  have  grown  up  in  the  country 
to  live  their  lives  there.  It  may  be"  —  her  voice  showed  a 
deep  quiver  —  "that  they  ain't  done  wholly  right  by  their 
children.  Maybe  they've  kept  them  out  of  life.  But,  how- 
soever, it's  for  the  children  to  abide  by  it.  They  couldn't 
learn  the  other  way.    They  would  always  be  transgressin'." 

The  painter  was  troubled  and  bewildered.  But  he  kept  to 
a  simple  path.  "I  don't  believe  there  is  any  situation  in  the 
world,  Mrs.  Rand,  in  which  you  couldn't  trust  your  instinct." 
He  was  beginning  —  he  believed  —  to  see  the  direction  of  her 
thought.  But  he  drew  her  farther  in  it  with  a  smile.  "Could 
you  hope  the  same  of  me?" 

"I  don't  believe  that  any  two  people,"  said  Mehala,  ignoring 
the  question  in  her  emotion,  "brought  up  in  different  ways  could 
ever  trust  each  other  to  know  just  the  thing  to  do.  To  —  to 
please  each  other.  They'd  see  life  —  I  read  it  in  a  book  once! 
—  from  different  angles.  Little  differences" — her  voice  be- 
came prophetic  —  "would  rise  up  to  trouble  them.  I  —  I 
should  be  afraid"  —  she  became  almost  pleading  in  her  stern- 
ness —  "I  should  be  terribly  afraid  to  see  it  tried." 

"It  is  not  a  new  experiment,"  said  Arkwright.  His  voice 
was  strong,  too,  with  appeal. 

"It's  a  mighty  dangerous  one,"  said  Mehala. 

It  had  become  a  duel,  at  last,  which  was  apparent.  Lucy, 
with  a  sudden  startled  movement,  like  a  bird's,  became  aware 
of  it.     She  put  out  a  quick  hand  toward  her  mother.    Arkwright, 


ALTA  BRUNT  SEMBOWER  199 

as  if  to  seize  the  moment  before  she  should  give  a  deciding 
word,  leaned  forward,  speaking  rapidly  and  firmly. 

"I  should  trust  my  happiness  to  it.  And  I  should  promise," 
he  went  on,  with  a  burst  of  daring,  "all  that  was  doubtful. 
It  is  determination  that  makes  three-fourths  of  happiness,  any- 
way —  not  circumstance.  Determination  and  —  what  you 
feel.  I  know  what  I  feel,"  he  suddenly  threw  out.  "It  is  the 
surest  feeling  I  have  ever  had.  And  I  hope  —  I  believe  I  may 
hope  —  "he  gave  a  fleeting  glance  through  the  dusk  at  the 
girl,  who  sat  poised  motionless.  "What  I  do  believe,"  he  went 
on  to  Mehala,  "is  that  two  persons  who  have  seen  each  other 
across  a  difference  of  circumstances  —  who,  through  a  cloud 
of  apparent  impossibility,  have  seen  each  other's  real  selves  — ■ 
have  a  chance  for  happiness  that  few  can  hope  for.  They  know 
each  other  as  they  are.  And  they  —  love  —  what  they  see." 
He  bent  across  to  Lucy  and  broke  the  silence  which  practically 
had  held  them  away  from  each  ether  ever  since  he  had  come. 
"You  —  you  believe  it,  too?" 

It  was  an  expression  of  faith  almost  as  much  as  a  question. 
But  Lucy  felt  the  obligation  of  truth  that  it  put  upon  her.  She 
had  laid  one  hand  upon  her  mother's  arm ;  she  kept  it  there,  and 
with  the  other  found  her  mother's  hand.  Across  this  little  circlet 
of  protection  she  gave  her  eyes  to  Arkwright's  gaze. 

"Yes, I  do."  Her  voice  was  soft  and  tremulous,  but  it  was 
not  the  voice  of  a  child.  Mehala  heard  the  maturer  note  in  it. 
She  rose  to  her  feet,  loosing  herself  from  the  girl's  grasp  rather 
uncertainly.     Arkwright  rose  and  faced  her  with  eager  concern. 

"Can't  you  take  me  on  trust,  Mrs.  Rand?"  His  boyish- 
ness was  in  his  favor  after  his  burst  of  positive  opinion.  "There 
are  different  standards  of  conduct  and  propriety.  But  there  is 
only  one  standard  of  sincerity." 

Mehala  met  him  courageously.  "I  think  —  I  believe  — 
you're  a  good  man."  Her  voice  trembled,  but  she  recovered 
some  of  her  dryness  of  speech.     "Anyway,  there's  no  more  to 


200  THE  CHAPERON 

do.  I've  thought  —  I've  feared  —  ever  since  Lucy  come 
home.  But  I  hoped  it  was  a  girl's  fancy  —  to  pass  away. 
Then  when  you  came  —  I've  my  fears  —  I  determined  to  tell 
'em  to  you  —  that  such  a  thing  can't  turn  out  well.  But"  — 
she  gave  the  young  man  a  half-smile  which  betrayed  that  she 
had  not  opposed  him  altogether  easily  —  "maybe  it  can!" 
She  turned  her  glance  toward  Lucy  as  if  the  girl  were  far  away. 
"I'll  go  and  see  what  makes  your  father  stay  so  long." 

Lucy  made  a  sudden  movement  to  delay  her,  but  Mehala 
ignored  it  and  opened  the  screen-door.  Inside  the  house  she 
paused  an  instant.  Her  heart  yearned  toward  the  girl,  as  indeed 
it  had  yearned  all  the  evening  while  she  had  withheld  a  word 
of  sympathy.  She  felt  now  almost  as  if  she  had  abandoned  her 
child  to  a  foe.  The  next  moment  she  heard  Arkwright's  swift 
step  across  the  porch.  She  waited  breathless  for  a  sound  from 
Lucy;  it  came,  a  quick  sob  of  happiness.  Mehala  moved  farther 
out  of  hearing. 

She  heard  Silas  in  the  kitchen  striking  a  match  to  light  the 
lamp.  He  came  slowly,  carrying  it  into  the  parlor.  Mehala 
met  him  in  the  door,  took  the  lamp,  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 
Then  she  motioned  Silas  to  a  chair.  He  obeyed;  he  knew  better 
than  to  precipitate  the  matter  by  questions  when  Mehala's 
face  was  tense  like  that.  She  did  not  keep  him  long  in  bewilder- 
ment; she  forgot  that  she  had  snubbed  him  into  silence  toward 
her  on  the  matter  that  had  filled  both  their  minds. 

"They're  out  there,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper  full  of  helplessness, 
"again,  without"  —  she  halted  at  the  new  word. 

Silas's  quickness  of  mind  did  not  desert  him  in  emotion.  He 
saw  the  situation  fully.  A  murmur  of  voices  came  softly 
from  the  porch.  Silas  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  sound,  and 
then  back  to  Mehala's  agitated  face.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with 
unmodified  cheerfulness. 

"I  reckon,"  he  said,without  subduing  his  voice  to  Mehala's  care- 
fulnote — "I  reckon  they've  got  to  take  life  withoutashappy-roan." 


PART    III 
HOW     TO     SEE     LIFE     IMAGINATIVELY 


PART    III 
INTRODUCTION 

HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE   IMAGINATIVELY 

The  unity  of  worldly  affairs,  discussed  at  some  length  in  the 
last  section,  forms  the  basis  on  which  imagination  constructs  a 
story  in  everyday  life.  The  unity  of  human  emotion,  the 
idea  that  a  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  is  the 
more  specific  principle  on  which  we  would  base  a  discussion  of 
the  art  of  seeing  things  vividly  or  imaginatively. 

To  see  life  vividly  is  to  see  it  in  its  relation  to  human  feeling. 
Unimaginative  persons  are  either  inattentive  or  see  merely 
to  recognize,  to  classify,  and  to  know.  Wordsworth's  Peter 
Bell  has  become  the  type  of  the  person  who  sees  no  more  than 
meets  the  eye. 

"A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 

The  imaginative  attitude  demands  more  than  this  simple 
observation.  It  demands  an  apprehension  of  things  in  at  least 
some  of  their  relations  to  the  emotional  life  of  men  and  women. 
The  more  profound  and  universal  the  relationship  to  this  side 
of  life,  the  higher  is  the  form  of  imagination  displayed.  No 
writing  can  be  considered  vivid  or  artistic  that  fails  to  manifest 
something  of  this  quality.  A  narrative  is  a  bare  chronicle 
without  significance  unless  it  is  in  some  sense  the  product 
of  the  author's  imaginative  insight. 

Poets,  more  than  other  men,  see  human  situations  charged 
with  their  emotional  meaning.     Indeed,  they  are  poets  by  virtue 


204  HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE  IMAGINATIVELY 

of  the  continued  intensity  and  vividness  with  which  they  imagine 
life.  Most  of  us  on  hearing  a  hurdy-gurdy  or  a  barrel-organ 
always  regard  it  as  so  much  merely  amusing  or  merely  irritating 
sound.  We  are  often  scarcely  conscious  of  any  answer  in  us 
to  the  crude  music,  and  we  do  not  consider  even  remotely  its 
possible  effect  on  other  persons.  But  the  poet  Alfred  Noyes 
hears  a  barrel-organ l  in  the  streets  of  London,  and  it  opens  to 
him  the  hearts  of  all  men  and  women  who  trudge  by  in  ap- 
parent insensibility.  The  thief,  the  portly  man  of  business,  the 
clerk,  the  butcher,  the  modish  woman,  the  demi-rep  are  all 
carried  on  the  wings  of  the  banal  music  to  "  the  land  where  the 
dead  dreams  go."  Or  Shelley  hears  of  the  death  of  John  Keats, 
and  the  event  arouses  in  the  lyric  poet  a  vast  flood  of  personal 
feeling,  which  in  turn  gives  him  a  vivid  appreciation  of  what  the 
earthly  end  of  a  poet  means  to  the  hearts  of  all  men  at  all 
times.  In  Adonais,  therefore,  he  is  able  to  mount  to  perhaps 
the  most  exalted  utterance  in  English  literature  of  the  emotions 
which  the  contemplation  of  Death  and  Eternity  arouse  in 
sensitive  men. 

One  need  not  possess  a  poet's  lofty  vision,  however,  to  see 
things  imaginatively.  Above  all,  one  need  not  discover  remote, 
strange,  or  even  exalted  suggestions  in  common  things.  Im- 
agination is  not,  as  many  persons  seem  to  think,  an  excursion 
into  a  world  of  phantasy.  It  can  be  exercised  in  the  most 
humble  situations.  The  student's  theme,  In  the  Firelight, 
in  spite  of  some  sentimentalism  in  tone,  is  proof  of  this  fact. 
We  all  know  a  family  in  which  strict  religious  parents  refuse  to 
let  their  sons  and  daughters  learn  to  dance.  This  may  be  to  us, 
however,  a  fact  of  no  imaginative  significance.  If  we  begin 
to  see  this  situation  imaginatively,  we  shall  doubtless  see  it  at 
first  only  partially  —  with  regard  solely  to  the  feelings  of  the 
children  with  whom  we  sympathize.  Presented  in  dialogue 
without  much  further  consideration,  the  case  will  appear  far 

'"The  Barrel  Organ,"  Poems,  Vol.  I,  by  Alfred  Noyes. 


HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE  IMAGINATIVELY  205 

less  complex  than  in  the  student's  theme.  The  daughter  will 
represent  all  that  is  true  and  natural  in  feeling  and  the  mother 
—  unnatural  Puritanical  repression  and  unjustified  authority. 
Miss  Thomson,  however,  is  able  to  conceive  the  emotions  of 
all  the  persons  from  their  own  point  of  view.  We  catch  a  glimpse, 
therefore,  of  an  entire  family  bound  together  by  very  deep 
affection.  The  differences  in  opinion  about  dancing  show  the 
sympathetic  and  deeply  emotional  relation  existing  between 
daughter  and  mother,  brother  and  sister,  father  and  mother, 
and  even  between  the  daughter  and  her  college  friends.  The 
imaginative  intensity  of  this  sketch  has  been  produced  be- 
cause the  author  was  able  to  see  a  simple  human  situation  in 
terms  of  the  feelings  of  many  people. 

The  power  of  seeing  things  vividly  is  perhaps  oftenest  desired 
for  descriptive  writing.  Here  students'  extravagant  ideas  of  the 
true  nature  of  imagination  sometimes  lead  to  forced  fancies. 
To  see  gnomes  in  the  flames  of  a  log-fire,  elves  in  the  moonlight, 
prancing  steeds  or  trailing  garments  in  smoke  hanging  over  a 
city  or  swirling  from  the  stacks  is  a  relatively  low  manifestation 
of  the  imaginative  faculty.  To  see  the  same  city  smoke  as 
Booth  Tarkington  does  in  the  passage  from  The  Turmoil  is  to 
regard  it  with  a  more  vivid  and  with  a  profounder  insight. 
He  sees  it  as  a  phenomenon  laden  with  the  history  of  human 
feeling  in  a  mid-western  city.  The  smoke  means  that  the 
inhabitants  of  the  place  have  for  years  been  driven  to  violent 
action  by  a  half-mad  desire  for  money,  and  for  bigness  and  hasty 
growth  as  necessary  preliminaries  to  this  coveted  wealth. 
The  phenomenon  has  been  able  to  evoke  this  vision  from  the 
mind  of  the  author  because  it  has  been  regarded  not  as  an 
isolated  fact  for  superficial  record  or  description,  but  as  the 
first  of  a  train  of  logical  emotional  associations.  The  secondary 
facts  are  vitally  concerned  with  human  living  and  so  freighted 
with  emotion.  The  train  of  associations  finally  leads  to  the  man 
Sheridan,  who  is  a  sort  of  twin  brother  to  the  smoke,  born  of 


206  HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE  IMAGINATIVELY 

the  rush  for  bigness.  He  is  the  crass,  brutal  emotion  of  the  city 
incarnate.  Introduced  in  this  character,  he  arouses  immedi- 
ately an  imaginative  conception  in  the  reader.  He  inherits  at 
his  first  appearance  much  of  the  feeling  which  the  antecedent 
description  has  aroused. 

The  emotional  contagion  in  a  description  more  often  proceeds 
from  persons  to  objects  and  events.  To  see  through  the  eyes 
of  a  character  whose  feelings  we  understand  is  to  share  his 
emotional  prejudices.  This  imaginative  method  is  illustrated 
in  a  simple  form  in  The  Glenmore  Fire.  As  compared  with  the 
fire  reported  on  the  first  page  of  your  morning's  paper  —  there 
is  a  four  million  dollar  fire  in  a  munition  plant  in  Pittsburgh 
reported  on  the  first  page  of  mine  —  the  Glenmore  fire  is  a  record 
not  of  facts  but  of  feelings.  The  cause  of  the  fire,  the  loss  of 
life,  the  terrible  picturesqueness  of  the  scene,  are  thrilling  mainly 
because  one  of  the  helpless  onlookers  is  the  man  who  falsely 
built  the  Glenmore  as  a  fire-proof  hotel,  knowing  that  he  was 
cheating  the  world  when  he  did  it.  The  Glenmore  fire  is  there- 
fore humanly  dramatic,  humanly  significant.  It  is  not  a  mere 
spectacle.  How  to  give  the  munition  plant  fire  its  true  imagi- 
native significance  would  be  an  interesting  problem  to  work  out 
in  the  light  of  this  lesser  conflagration. 

The  description  of  the  factory  from  The  Long  Day  derives 
its  appeal  through  our  comprehension  of  the  characters  there 
and  of  their  feelings.  The  story  of  Little  Rosebud  as  told  by 
Mrs.  Smith  is  not  presented  to  the  reader  as  the  mere  resume 
of  a  plot.  It  is  description  of  the  woman's  idea  of  romance. 
We  see  the  events  in  that  absurd  tale  entirely  through  the 
emotions  of  the  narrator.  After  Mrs.  Smith  has  established  the 
character  of  the  story  through  the  contagion  of  her  personality, 
it  moves  along  almost  independently  of  the  narrator,  so  that 
when  it  is  over,  it  illumines  Mrs.  Smith  and  the  life  of  all  the 
girls  in  the  shop. 

In   the  passage  from  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  called 


HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE  IMAGINATIVELY  207 

"Thunder  and  Lightning"  the  reader  is  made  to  apprehend 
in  another  way  the  emotional  values  of  a  scene.  It  is  the 
unusual  position  of  the  characters  that  contributes  the  imagi- 
native quality  to  the  situation  of  which  they  are  the  animating 
center.  A  violent  thunder-storm  makes  a  series  of  unusually 
vivid  experiences  for  a  man  on  the  top  of  a  wheat  stack  who 
is  working  furiously  to  protect  it  from  the  impending  rain. 
He  is  high  in  the  air,  alive  to  the  danger  of  his  position  and 
the  need  for  strenuous  labor.  The  vividness  of  his  emotion 
results  from  the  storm  and  we  see  the  storm  through  his  intensity. 

The  emotions  can  never  be  aroused  to  swiftness  and  keenness 
by  reality  unless  the  senses  are  vividly  awake.  Thus  we  come  to 
an  important  axiom.  To  see  life  imaginatively  is  to  see  the 
concrete,  sensuous  details  of  which  it  is  composed.  The  im- 
aginative person  sees  not  to  name  reality  but  to  "sense"  it. 
He  has  a  sense  not  for  events  but  for  being.  The  external  world 
comes  into  his  mind  like  sunshine,  not  to  be  converted  into 
motor  energy,  but  to  be  broken  up  into  all  its  glorious  prismatic 
colors. 

Mr.  Max  Eastman  in  his  Enjoyment  of  Poetry  calls  our  at- 
tention to  a  memorandum  in  an  early  diary  of  Helen  Keller. 
"Nancy  was  cross.  Cross  is  cry  and  kick."  The  imaginative 
person  always  sees  cross  as  cry  and  kick.  "Jones  butts  into 
every  discussion  and  settles  every  question  by  pretending 
omniscience,"  says  the  student  who  is  interested  in  the  meaning 
of  events  rather  than  in  their  aspect.  The  student  who  feels 
the  nature  of  the  objectionable  comrade  and  is  skillful  enough 
to  make  that  feeling  articulate  would  be  more  apt  to  say, 
"I  can't  stand  Jones's  pointed  chin,  his  superior  shrug  and 
grin,  and  his  affectedly  cautious,  'As  a  matter  of  fact  I  suspect 
that  none  of  you  are  right.     The  truth  seems  to  be  this.'  " 

Narrative  poetry  exists  as  a  literary  form  precisely  because 
in  it  plot  and  "things  doing"  are  so  far  subordinated  to  the 
sense  of  being  that  they  seem  only  a  pulse  of  that  more  funda- 


208  HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE  IMAGINATIVELY 

mental  reality.  In  the  following  passage  from  Lamia  Keats 
shows  us  Lycius,  not  seeing  Lamia  to  recognize  her,  but  filled 
with  a  sudden  consciousness  of  Lamia's  being: 

"There  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  the  wood 

While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 

Ah  happy  Lycius!  for  she  was  a  maid 

More  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid, 

Or  sighed,  or  blush 'd,  or  on  a  spring  flower'd  lea 

Spread  a  green  kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy." 

Thus  sensed  the  girl  speaks  intimately  to  Lycius's  inmost 
feelings  and  through  his  to  our  own.  To  behold  a  person  thus 
is  a  unique  and  pristine  experience.  The  senses  called  upon 
by  every  line  bring  to  the  mind  at  each  instant  a  vivid  image, 
which  in  turn  starts  a  train  of  emotions  upon  its  adventurous 
course.  An  appeal  to  the  mind's  inevitably  close  attention 
to  fresh  experience  by  way  of  the  senses  can  be  made  as 
forcibly  in  pure  narration  as  in  descriptive  forms  of  writing. 
Read  Gerard  and  the  Bear  and  see  how  much  of  the  breath- 
less intensity  of  that  tale  is  caused  by  the  uninterrupted 
succession  of  images. 

Figures  of  speech  arouse  feeling  immediately  because  they 
endow  objects  with  a  new  sensuous  interest.  "Out  leaped  the 
fifth  flash,"  writes  Hardy,  "with  the  spring  of  a  serpent  and 
the  shout  of  a  fiend."  And  it  has  ceased  to  be  a  thunder-clap 
like  others  we  have  known,  because  it  makes  a  unique  and 
utterly  fresh  appeal  to  the  eye  and  ear. 

The  facts  presented  in  the  passage  from  A  Life  for  a  Life 
are  given  imaginative  reach  in  this  way.  Through  the  in- 
fluence of  a  fanciful  resemblance,  the  familiar  phenomena 
of  a  city  seen  by  night  come  to  the  emotions  with  a  fresh  direct- 
ness. The  city  is  conceived  as  being  a  huge  living  creature 
with  a  vast  purposeful  life  of  its  own.    The  various  mani- 


HOW  TO  SEE  LIFE  IMAGINATIVELY  209 

festations  of  activity  in  a  city  are  presented  in  a  fashion  con-' 
sistent  with  this  initial  conception.  The  men  crossing  the 
bridge  are  no  longer  human  beings,  but  little  atoms  alternately 
disgorged  and  sucked  up  by  the  insatiate  monster.  Thus 
regarded,  the  struggling  human  creatures  with  their  hard,  set 
faces  seem  "as  though  leaning  against  the  blast  of  destiny  that 
threatened  to  sweep  them  forth  into  the  void."  Finally  the 
word  Success,  gleaming  on  a  great  electric  sign  hung  aloft  in 
the  night,  is  more  than  that.  It  is  the  text  according  to  which 
the  leviathan  orders  its  life.  All  the  details  of  the  picture 
speak  to  the  emotions  strongly  because  they  are  charged  with 
the  energy  of  the  initial  conception. 

There  are  thus  two  distant  aspects  of  imaginative  visions  of 
life.  The  first  demands  sympathetic  discovery  of  latent  emotion 
in  men  and  women.  The  imaginative  observer  of  life  will  see 
the  rich  emotional  texture  of  a  situation  in  which  more  than  one 
human  being  bears  a  part.  He  will  see  the  feelings  of  the  char- 
acters in  which  events  are  imbedded,  and  he  will  see  the  feelings 
of  each  figure  in  their  complex  entirety  in  spite  of  momentary 
partisanship  for  a  hero  or  heroine.  In  purely  descriptive  writing 
he  presents  even  landscape  tinged  by  the  carefully  depicted 
emotions  of  some  human  being. 

The  second  aspect  of  this  imaginative  vision  concerns  the 
channels  through  which  the  emotions  reach  their  original 
discoverer  and  through  which  they  pass  from  him  to  the  readers. 
The  author  must  speak  the  language  of  the  emotions.  He  must 
employ  the  specific  fact  and  sensuous  image  which  enables  a 
man  not  to  name  an  object  but  to  allow  his  mind  to  be  directly 
conscious  of  its  being.  When  a  writer  has  performed  both  of 
these  high  duties,  he  has  transformed  a  raw  fact  of  life  into  a 
radiating  center  of  art. 


XIV.  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT1 
Margaret  Thomson 

^University  of  Wisconsin] 

"Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  have  you  at  home  again,  dear,  even 
though  I  know  that  it  is  only  for  a  few  days.  Almost  every 
evening  I  sit  here  by  the  grate-fire  waiting  for  your  father,  and 
shut  my  eyes,  trying  to  pretend  that  my  daughter  is  in  the  big 
chair  opposite,  bent  over  a  book,  and  not  away  off  at  college. 
But  it  is  hard  even  with  my  eyes  closed,  because,  you  see, 
I  can  never  quite  make  myself  forget  that  the  chair  is  empty." 

Marjorie  leaned  over  and  took  her  mother's  hand. 

"I  know,  Mother  mine,  I  have  tried  and  tried  to  make  you 
sit  beside  me  at  dinner  time  in  the  big  dining-room  with  all  its 
chatter;  but  you  will  never  stay.  You  are  always  turning  up, 
instead,  in  the  little  blue  dining-room  at  home,  with  Grandma's 
white  head  on  your  right,  and  Bob's  face  alight  with  an  impish 
grin  as  he  remarks,  'Gee!  I  wish  you'd  seen  the  substitute 
we  had  at  school  to-day,  Dad;'  and  then  I  swallow  hard  and 
plunge  desperately  into  the  funniest  story  I  know  till  the  table 
rocks  with  fun." 

Understandingly  mother  and  daughter  smiled  at  each  other. 
Then  both  fell  into  a  sweet,  intimate  silence  as  they  gazed  into 
the  glowing  coals.     Marjorie  broke  the  stillness. 

"Speaking  of  Bob,  Mother,  how  he  is  growing  up!  Why, 
he's  two  inches  taller  than  I  already  and  so  important  now  that 
he  is  in  High  School.  When  I  left  home  he  wouldn't  look  at 
a  girl  either,  and  now  —  " 

"Yes,  now,"  finished  her  mother,  "it's  'Jean'  this  and 
'Bess'  that  and  'Dorothy'  something  else!    And  he's  reached 

1  This  story  is  discussed  in  the  introduction  to  Part  III,  pages  204-205. 


MARGARET  THOMSON  211 

the  stage,  too,  where  he  wants  to  learn  to  dance,"  she  added 
with  a  troubled  frown. 

Marjorie  looked  up  quickly.  "You  are  going  to  let  him, 
Mother?" 

Slowly  the  older  woman  shook  her  head.  "No,  dear,  your 
father  feels  that  it  is  not  best,  just  as  he  always  has." 

"I  don't  see  why,  Mother;  I  don't  see  why!  I  have  been 
dancing  a  little  at  school  this  year.  You  told  me  I  might,  you 
know,  if  I  still  wanted  to,  and  I  cannot  see  any  harm  in  it;  I 
cannot!" 

Wearily  the  mother  sighed.  "Why  go  through  the  whole 
question  again,  dear?  You  know  your  father's  views.  And 
especially  with  his  position  in  the  church  he  feels  that  it 
would  be  ill-advised,  that  there  would  be  a  great  deal  of 
criticism." 

"Bother  the  criticism!"  came  the  impatient  reply.  Then 
after  a  pause  in  which  both  women  stared  motionless  into  the 
heart  of  the  fire,  the  young  voice  rang  out  sharply:  "Listen 
to  me,  Mother!  Bob  will  do  it  anyway!  I  didn't.  I  am  a 
girl;  and  I  have  done  what  you  wished  all  this  time  until  I  left 
home  and  you  told  me  I  might  dance  if  I  cared  to.  But  Bob  is 
a  boy.  And  if  he  wants  to  dance,  he  will  dance!  He'll  do  it 
anyway!" 

Abruptly  the  voice  ceased,  and  in  a  moment  the  mother's 
answer  came  firmly  and  a  little  coldly. 

"No,  Marjorie,  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  I  do  not  believe 
that  Robert  will  ever  dance  without  our  consent." 

Again  silence  settled  down  upon  them  —  a  heavy,  uncom- 
fortable silence,  this  time,  that  was  hard  to  break.  Outside 
the  windows  the  twilight  deepened;  inside,  the  gloom  darkened 
to  night  except  where  the  tiny,  flickering  flames  threw  dancing 
shadows  across  the  polished  floor.  Over  both  faces  hovered  a 
hurt  look  of  pain  and  misunderstanding.  Slowly  the  moments 
passed.     Then  the  mother  spoke  gently. 


212  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 

"You  see,  dear,  your  father  wants  Robert  to  wait  awhile 
until  he  is  sure  of  what  he  is  doing.  He  is  so  young  yet.  How 
can  he  know  what  is  right  and  wrong?  But  if,  when  the  boy 
grows  older,  old  enough  to  judge  for  himself,  and  still  wants 
to  dance,  and  feels  that  there  is  no  harm  in  it,"  she  sighed, 
"why,  then  —  " 

"Yes,  then,"  broke  in  the  girl's  voice  passionately.  "Then 
you  will  say,  'Go  ahead  and  dance';  and  I  know  well  enough 
what  that  means.  You  are  a  girl.  You  go  away  to  college. 
You  are  out  of  things  from  the  very  beginning.  Everybody 
dances;  you  don't.  Everyone  stares  in  surprise  at  you  and 
exclaims,  'You  have  never  danced?  Why,  how  very  odd!' 
You  make  up  your  mind  to  learn.  One  of  the  girls  takes  you 
in  hand.  You  go  to  your  first  dance,  a  mixer  or  something, 
where  anybody  is  welcome.  You  are  awkward  and  uncom- 
fortable. Everybody  seems  to  be  looking  straight  at  you, 
and  everybody  else  'knows  how.'  It  is  no  wonder  that  your 
partner  thinks  you  a  'perfect  stick'!  And  then,"  she  hur- 
ried on,  utterly  oblivious,  in  her  earnestness,  of  the  growing 
pain  and  sorrow  on  her  mother's  face,  "perhaps  later,  some  one 
invites  you  to  a  dance  —  a  real  dance !  You  are  too  happy 
for  words  and  then  with  a  shock  you  remember  the  blundering 
steps  and  smile  coldly,  'I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Williams,  but  I 
do  not  dance.'  " 

Hands  clenched  together  in  her  lap,  the  mother  sat  and 
listened  dully  to  the  cruel  young  voice. 

"Then  you  are  determined  that  you  will  learn.  But  there  is  so 
much  to  do.  You  are  overwhelmingly  busy  and  the  other  girls 
are  busy  too.  Gradually  you  stop  going  even  to  the  mixers. 
You  don't  meet  any  men  outside  the  classroom.  You  stay  in 
your  room  and  study  while  the  other  girls  have  a  gay  time. 
And  they  call  you  a  grind!  Oh,"  the  voice  rose  shrilly,  "it's 
a  mistake  —  it  is  not  fair!    I  say  let  Bob  dance.     Let  him!" 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  breathed  the  older  woman,  wincing. 


MARGARET  THOMSON  213 

With  a  startled  glance  the  girl  looked  at  her  mother,  and  then 
with  a  cry  was  on  her  knees  beside  her. 

"Oh,  Mother,  Mother,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you!  I  wouldn't 
have  said  it  for  the  world  if  I  had  thought." 

"Hush,  dear,  hush,"  whispered  her  mother,  gathering  her 
close.  "I  am  so  glad  you  did  tell  me.  I'll  talk  the  matter 
over  with  your  father  again.  There,  I  hear  his  step  on  the 
porch  now.    Run  and  open  the  door." 


XV.    CITY    SMOKE1 
Booth  Tarkington 

There  is  a  midland  city  in  the  heart  of  fair,  open  country, 
a  dirty  and  wonderful  city  nesting  dingily  in  the  fog  of  its 
own  smoke.  The  stranger  must  feel  the  dirt  before  he  feels 
the  wonder,  for  the  dirt  will  be  upon  him  instantly.  It  will  be 
upon  him' and  within  him,  since  he  must  breathe  it,  and  he  may 
care  for  no  further  proof  that  wealth  is  here  better  loved  than 
cleanliness;  but  whether  he  cares  or  not,  the  negligently  tended 
streets  incessantly  press  home  the  point,  and  so  do  the  flecked 
and  grimy  citizens.  At  a  breeze  he  must  smother  in  whirl- 
pools of  dust,  and  if  he  should  decline  at  any  time  to  inhale  the 
smoke  he  has  the  meager  alternative  of  suicide. 

The  smoke  is  like  the  bad  breath  of  a  giant  panting  for  more 
and  more  riches.  He  gets  them  and  pants  the  fiercer,  smelling 
and  swelling  prodigiously.  He  has  a  voice,  a  hoarse  voice,  hot 
and  rapacious,  trained  to  one  tune:  "  Wealth !  I  will  get  Wealth ! 
I  will  make  Wealth!  I  will  sell  Wealth  for  more  Wealth! 
My  house  shall  be  dirty,  my  garment  shall  be  dirty,  and  I  will 
foul  my  neighbor  so  that  he  cannot  be  clean  —  but  I  will  get 
Wealth!  There  shall  be  no  clean  thing  about  me:  my  wife 
shall  be  dirty,  and  my  child  shall  be  dirty,  but  I  will  get  Wealth!" 
And  yet  it  is  not  wealth  that  he  is  so  greedy  for;  what  the 
giant  really  wants  is  hasty  riches.  To  get  these  he  squanders 
wealth  upon  the  four  winds,  for  wealth  is  in  the  smoke. 

Not  quite  so  long  ago  as  a  generation,  there  was  no  panting 
giant  here,  no  heaving,  grimy  city;  there  was  but  a  pleasant 
big  town  of  neighborly  people  who  had  understanding  of  one 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Turmoil  with  the  kind  permission  of  Harper  and  Brothers 
and  of  the  author.  This  story  is  discussed  in  the  introduction  to  Part  III,  pages 
205-206. 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  215 

another,  being,  on  the  whole,  much  of  the  same  type.  It  was 
a  leisurely  and  kindly  place  —  "homelike,"  it  was  called  — 
and  when  the  visitor  had  been  taken  through  the  State  Asylum 
for  the  Insane  and  made  to  appreciate  the  view  of  the  cemetery 
from  a  little  hill,  his  host's  duty  as  Baedeker  was  done.  The 
good  burghers  were  given  to  jogging  comfortably  about  in  phae- 
tons or  in  surreys  for  a  family  drive  on  Sunday.  No  one  was 
very  rich;  few  were  very  poor;  the  air  was  clean,  and  there  was 
time  to  live. 

But  there  was  a  spirit  abroad  in  the  land,  and  it  was  strong 
here  as  elsewhere  —  a  spirit  that  had  moved  in  the  depths 
of  the  American  soil  and  labored  there,  sweating,  till  it  stirred 
the  surface,  roved  the  mountains,  and  emerged,  tangible  and 
monstrous,  the  god  of  all  good  American  hearts  —  Bigness. 
And  that  god  wrought  the  panting  giant. 

In  the  souls  of  the  burghers  there  had  always  been  the  pro- 
found longing  for  size.  Year  by  year  the  longing  increased  until 
it  became  an  accumulated  force:  We  must  Grow!  We  must  be 
Big!  We  must  be  Bigger!  Bigness  means  Money!  And  the 
thing  began  to  happen;  their  longing  became  a  mighty  Will. 
We  must  be  Bigger!  Bigger!  Bigger!  Get  people  here!  Coax 
them  here!  Bribe  them!  Swindle  them  into  coming,  if  you 
must,  but  get  them!  Shout  them  into  coming!  Deafen  them 
into  coming!  Any  kind  of  people;  all  kinds  of  people!  We 
must  be  Bigger!  Blow!  Boost!  Brag!  Kill  the  fault-finder! 
Scream  and  bellow  to  the  Most  High:  Bigness  is  patriotism 
and  honor!  Bigness  is  love  and  life  and  happiness!  Bigness  is 
Money!     We  want  Bigness! 

They  got  it.  From  all  the  states  the  people  came;  thinly 
at  first,  and  slowly,  but  faster  and  faster  in  thicker  and  thicker 
swarms  as  the  quick  years  went  by.  White  people  came,  and 
black  people  and  brown  people  and  yellow  people;  the  negroes 
came  from  the  South  by  the  thousands  and  thousands,  multi- 
plying by  other  thousands  and  thousands  faster  than   they 


216  CITY  SMOKE 

could  die.  From  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  the  people 
came,  the  broken  and  the  unbroken,  the  tame  and  the  wild  — 
Germans,  Irish,  Italians,  Hungarians,  Scotch,  Welsh,  English, 
French,  Swiss,  Swedes,  Norwegians,  Greeks,  Poles,  Russian 
Jews,  Dalmatians,  Armenians,  Rumanians,  Bulgarians,  Ser- 
vians, Persians,  Syrians,  Japanese,  Chinese,  Turks,  and  every 
hybrid  that  these  could  propagate.  And  if  there  were  no 
Eskimos  nor  Patagonians,  what  other  human  strain  that  earth 
might  furnish  failed  to  swim  and  bubble  in  this  crucible? 

With  Bigness  came  the  new  machinery  and  the  rush;  the 
streets  began  to  roar  and  rattle,  the  houses  to  tremble;  the 
pavements  were  worn  under  the  tread  of  hurrying  multitudes. 
The  old,  leisurely,  quizzical  look  of  the  faces  was  lost  in  some- 
thing harder  and  warier;  and  a  cockney  type  began  to  emerge 
discernibly  —  a  cynical  young  mongrel,  barbaric  of  feature, 
muscular  and  cunning;  dressed  in  good  fabrics  fashioned  ap- 
parently in  imitation  of  the  sketches  drawn  by  newspaper 
comedians.  The  female  of  his  kind  came  with  him  —  a  pale 
girl,  shoddy  and  a  little  rouged;  and  they  communicated  in  a 
nasal  argot,  mainly  insolences  and  elisions.  Nay,  the  common 
speech  of  the  people  showed  change :  in  place  of  the  old  midland 
vernacular,  irregular  but  clean,  and  not  unwholesomely  drawl- 
ing, a  jerky  dialect  of  coined  metaphors  began  to  be  heard,  held 
together  by  gunnas  and  gottas  and  much  fostered  by  the  public 
journals. 

The  city  piled  itself  high  in  the  center,  tower  on  tower  for 
a  nucleus,  and  spread  itself  out  over  the  plain,  mile  after  mile; 
and  in  its  vitals,  like  benevolent  bacilli  contending  with  ma- 
levolent in  the  body  of  a  man,  missions  and  refuges  offered  what 
resistance  they  might  to  the  saloons  and  all  the  hells  that  cities 
house  and  shelter.  Temptation  and  ruin  were  ready  commodi- 
ties on  the  market  for  purchase  by  the  venturesome;  high- 
waymen walked  the  streets  at  night  and  sometimes  killed; 
snatching  thieves  were  busy  everywhere  in  the  dusk;    while 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  217 

house-breakers  were  a  common  apprehension  and  frequent 
reality.  Life  itself  was  somewhat  safer  from  intentional  de- 
struction than  it  was  in  medieval  Rome  during  a  faction  war  — • 
though  the  Roman  murderer  was  more  like  to  pay  for  his  deed 
—  but  death  or  mutilation  beneath  the  wheels  lay  in  ambush 
at  every  crossing. 

The  politicians  let  the  people  make  all  the  laws  they  liked; 
it  did  not  matter  much,  and  the  taxes  went  up,  which  is  good  for 
politicians.  Law-making  was  a  pastime  of  the  people;  nothing 
pleased  them  more.  Singular  fermentation  of  their  humor, 
they  even  had  laws  forbidding  dangerous  speed.  More  marvel- 
ous still,  they  had  a  law  forbidding  smoke!  They  forbade 
chimneys  to  smoke  and  they  forbade  cigarettes  to  smoke. 
They  made  laws  for  all  things  and  forgot  them  immediately; 
though  sometimes  they  would  remember  after  a  while,  and 
hurry  to  make  new  laws  that  the  old  laws  should  be  enforced  — 
and  then  forget  both  new  and  old.  Wherever  enforcement 
threatened  Money  or  Votes  —  or  wherever  it  was  too  much 
bother  —  it  became  a  joke.     Influence  was  the  law. 

So  the  place  grew.     And  it  grew  strong. 

Straightway  when  he  came,  each  man  fell  to  the  same  worship: 

Give  me  of  thyself,  O  Bigness: 
Power  to  get  more  power! 
Riches  to  get  more  riches! 
Give  me  of  thy  sweat  that  I  may  sweat  more! 
Give  me  Bigness  to  get  more  Bigness  to  myself, 
O  Bigness,  for  Thine  is  the  Power  and  the  Glory!    And 
there  is  no  end  but  Bigness,  ever  and  for  ever! 

The  Sheridan  Building  was  the  biggest  skyscraper;  the 
Sheridan  Trust  Company  was  the  biggest  of  its  kind,  and 
Sheridan  himself  had  been  the  biggest  builder  and  breaker 
and  truster  and  buster  under  the  smoke.  He  had  come  from  a 
country  cross-roads,  at  the  beginning  of  the  growth,  and  he  had 
gone  up  and  down  in  the  booms  and  relapses  of  that  period ; 


218  CITY  SMOKE 

but  each  time  he  went  down  he  rebounded  a  little  higher,  until 
finally,  after  a  year  of  overwork  and  anxiety  —  the  latter  not 
decreased  by  a  chance,  remote  but  possible,  of  recuperation  from 
the  former  in  the  penitentiary  —  he  found  himself  on  top, 
with  solid  substance  under  his  feet;  and  thereafter  "played  it 
safe."  But  his  hunger  to,  get  was  unabated,  for  it  was  in  the 
very  bones  of  him  and  grew  fiercer. 

He  was  the  city  incarnate.  He  loved  it,  calling  it  God's 
country,  as  he  called  the  smoke  Prosperity,  breathing  the 
dingy  cloud  with  relish.  And  when  soot  fell  upon  his  cuff  he 
chuckled;  he  could  have  kissed  it.  "It's  good!  It's  good!"  he 
said,  and  smacked  his  lips  in  gusto.  "  Good,  clean  soot;  it's  our 
life-blood,  God  bless  it!"  The  smoke  was  one  of  his  great  enthu- 
siasms; he  laughed  at  a  committee  of  plaintive  housewives  who 
called  to  beg  his  aid  against  it.  "Smoke's  what  brings  your 
husbands'  money  home  on  Saturday  night,"  he  told  them, 
jovially.  "Smoke  may  hurt  your  little  shrubberies  in  the 
front  yard  some,  but  it's  the  catarrhal  climate  and  the  adenoids 
that  starts  your  chuldern  coughing.  Smoke  makes  the  climate 
better.  Smoke  means  good  health:  it  makes  the  people  wash 
more.  They  have  to  wash  so  much  they  wash  off  the  microbes. 
You  go  home  and  ask  your  husbands  what  smoke  puts  in  their 
pockets  out  o'  the  pay-roll  —  and  you'll  come  around  next  time 
to  get  me  to  turn  out  more  smoke  instead  o'  chokin'  it  off!" 


XVI.   SCENES  IN  FACTORIES1 

Margaret  Richardson 

QA  young  woman  from  rural  Pennsylvania  comes  to  New  York  in  search  of  a 
job  —  any  one  of  the  million  jobs  in  the  great  city.  Though  she  is  a  person  of 
some  education  and  much  innate  refinement,  she  is  without  any  special  training, 
and  she  is  also  without  money  or  friends.  She  therefore  looks  for  work,  like  any- 
body else,  and  takes  what  she  can  get.  We  see  her  starting  in  at  a  box  factory. 
The  reader  should  notice  how  immediately  he  finds  himself  in  the  factory  with  her, 
in  the  noise  and  whirl  of  it,  and  how  the  "pitch"  of  the  whole  scene  is  in  factory 
key.  The  sense  of  noise  and  whirr  never  ceases,  and  yet  there  is  no  sense  of  strain 
or  confusion.  The  next  time  the  reader  visits  a  factory  it  may  interest  him  tu 
test  the  realism  of  this  composition.] 


"Miss  Kinzer!  Here's  a  lady  wants  to  learn,"  shrilled  the 
high  nasal  voice.  "Miss  Kinzer!  Where's  Miss  Kinzer? 
Oh,  here  you  are!"  as  a  young  woman  emerged  from  behind 
a  pile  of  pasteboard  boxes.  "I've  a  learner  for  you,  Miss 
Kinzer.  She's  a  green  girl,  but  she  looks  likely,  and  I  want 
you  to  give  her  a  good  chance.  Better  put  her  on  table-work 
to  begin  with."  And  with  that  injunction  the  little  old  maid 
hopped  away,  leaving  me  to  the  scrutiny  and  cross-questioning 
of  a  rather  pretty  woman  of  twenty-eight  or  thirty. 

"Ever  worked  in  a  factory  before?"  she  began,  with  lofty 
indifference,  as  if  it  didn't  matter  whether  I  had  or  had  not. 

"No." 

"Where  did  you  work?" 

"I  never  worked  any  place  before." 

"Oh-h!"  There  was  a  world  of  meaning,  as  I  afterward 
discovered,  in  Miss  Kinzer 's  long-drawn-out  "  Oh-h ! "  In  this 
instance  she  looked  up  quickly,  with  an  obvious  display  of 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Long  Day  with  the  kind  permission  of  The  Century  Com- 
pany and  of  the  author. 


220  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

interest,  as  if  she  had  just  unearthed  a  remarkable  specimen  in 
one  who  had  never  worked  at  anything  before. 

"You're  not  used  to  work, then?  "  she  remarked  insinuatingly, 
straightening  up  from  the  rude  desk  where  she  sat  like  the 
judge  of  a  police-court.     She  was  now  all  attention. 

"Well,  not  exactly  that,"  I  replied,  nettled  by  her  manner 
and,  above  all,  by  her  way  of  putting  things.  "I  have  worked 
before,  but  never  at  factory- work." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  say  so?" 

She  now  opened  her  book  and  inscribed  my  name  therein. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Over  in  East  Fourteenth  Street,"  I  replied  mechanically, 
forgetting  for  the  moment  the  catastrophe  that  had  rendered 
me  more  homeless  than  ever. 

"Home?" 

"No,  I  room."  Then,  reading  only  too  quickly  an  unpleasant 
interpretation  in  the  uplifted  eyebrows,  a  disagreeable  curiosity 
mirrored  in  the  brown  eyes  beneath,  I  added  hastily,  "I  have  no 
home.     My  folks  are  all  dead." 

What  impression  this  bit  of  information  made  I  was  unable 
to  determine  as  I  followed  her  slender,  slightly  bowed  figure 
across  the  busy,  roaring  workroom. 

"Be  careful  you  don't  get  hurt,"  she  cried,  as  we  threaded  a 
narrow  passage  in  and  out  among  the  stamping,  throbbing 
machinery,  where,  by  the  light  that  filtered  through  the  grimy 
windows,  I  got  vague,  confused  glimpses  of  girl-faces  shining 
like  stars  out  of  this  dark,  fearful  chaos  of  revolving  belts 
and  wheels,  and  above  the  bedlam  noises  came  girlish  laughter 
and  song. 

"Good  morning,  Carrie!"  one  quick-witted  toiler  sang  out  as 
she  spied  the  new  girl  in  tow  of  the  forewoman,  and  suddenly 
the  whole  room  had  taken  up  the  burden  of  the  song. 

"Don't  mind  them,"  my  conductor  remarked.  "They 
don't  mean  nothing  by  it  —  watch  out  there  for  your  head! " 


MARGARET  RICHARDSON  221 

Safe  through  the  outlying  ramparts  of  machinery,  we  entered 
the  domain  of  the  table- workers,  and  I  was  turned  over  to  Phoebe, 
a  tall  girl  in  tortoise  earrings  and  curl-papers.  Phoebe  was 
assigned  to  "learn"  me  in  the  trade  of  "finishing."  Somewhat 
to  my  surprise,  she  assumed  the  task  joyfully,  and  helped  me 
off  with  my  coat  and  hat.  From  the  loud-mouthed  tirades  as 
to  "Annie  Kinzer's  nerve,"  it  became  evident  that  the  assign- 
ment of  the  job  of  "learner"  is  one  to  cause  heartburning 
jealousies,  and  that  Phcebe,  either  because  of  some  special 
adaptability  or  through  favoritism,  got  the  lion's  share  of 
novices. 

"That's  right,  Phcebe;  hog  every  new  girl  that  comes  along! " 
amiably  bawled  a  bright-faced,  tidy  young  woman  who  answered 
to  the  name  of  Mrs.  Smith.  Mrs.  Smith  worked  briskly  as  she 
talked,  and  the  burden  of  her  conversation  appeared  to  be 
the  heaping  of  this  sort  of  good-natured  invective  upon  the 
head  of  her  chum  —  or,  as  she  termed  it,  her  "lady-friend," 
Phoebe.  The  amiability  with  which  Mrs.  Smith  dealt  out  her 
epithets  was  only  equaled  by  the  perfect  good  nature  of  her 
victim,  who  replied  to  each  and  all  of  them  with  a  musically 
intoned,  "Hot  air!" 

"Hot  a — i — r!"  The  clear  tones  of  Phoebe's  soprano  set 
the  echoes  ringing  all  over  the  great  work-room.  In  and  out 
among  the  aisles  and  labyrinthine  passages  that  wind  through 
towering  piles  of  boxes,  from  the  thundering  machinery  far 
over  on  the  other  side  of  the  "loft"  to  the  dusky  recess  of  the 
uttermost  table,  the  musical  cry  reverberated. 

"Hot  a — i — r!"  Every  few  minutes,  all  through  the  long, 
weary  day,  Phoebe  found  occasion  for  sounding  that  magic  call. 

"The  rest  of  the  ladies  get  up  their  backs  something  awful," 
Phoebe  explained  as  she  dragged  a  big  green  pasteboard  box 
from  beneath  the  work-table.  "They  say  she  gives  me  more'n 
my  share  of  learners  because  I'm  easy  to  get  on  with,  I  guess, 
and  don't  play  no  tricks  on  them.  .  .  .  You  have  a  right  to 


222  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

put  your  things  in  here  along  with  my  lunch.  Them  girls 
is  like  to  do  'most  anything  to  a  new  girl's  duds  if  you  wuz  to 
hang  them  in  the  coat-room.  Them  Ginneys'll  do  'most  any- 
thing. Wuz  you  downstairs  when  Celia  Polatta  got  into  the 
fight  with  Rosie?" 

"I  just  missed  it,"  she  sighed  in  reply  to  my  affirmative. 
"I  was  born  unlucky." 

"Hello,  Phcebe!  So  you've  hogged  another!"  a  new  voice 
called  across  the  table,  and  I  put  a  question. 

"Why  do  they  all  want  to  teach  the  new  girl?  I  should  think 
they'd  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  trouble." 

"You  mean  learn  her?  Why,  because  the  girl  that  learns 
the  green  hand  gets  all  her  work  checked  on  to  her  own  card 
while  she's  learning  how.  Never  worked  in  a  box-factory 
before?  "     I  shook  my  head. 

"I  guessed  as  much.  Well,  box-making's  a  good  trade. 
Have  you  an  apron?" 

As  I  had  not,  I  was  then  ordered  to  "turn  my  skirt,"  in 
order  that  I  might  receive  the  inevitable  coat  of  glue  and  paste 
on  its  inner  rather  than  on  its  outer  surface.  I  gently  de- 
murred against  this  very  slovenly  expedient. 

"All  right;  call  it  hot  air  if  you  want  to.  I  s'pose  you  know 
it  all,"  tossing  her  curl-papers  with  scorn.  "You  know  bet- 
ter'n  me,  of  course.  Most  learners  do  think  they  knows  it  all. 
Now  looky  here,  I've  been  here  six  years,  and  I've  learned  lots 
of  green  girls,  and  I  never  had  one  as  didn't  think  she  hadn't 
ought  to  turn  her  skirt.  The  ladies  I'm  used  to  working  with 
likes  to  walk  home  looking  decent  and  respectable,  no  difference 
what  they're  like  other  times." 

With  the  respectability  of  my  ladyhood  thus  impeached, 
and  lest  I  infringe  upon  the  cast-iron  code  of  box-factory  eti- 
quette, there  was  nothing  to  do  but  yield.  I  unhooked  my 
skirt,  dropped  it  to  the  floor,  and  stepped  out  of  it  in  a  trice, 
anxious  to  do  anything  to  win  back  the  good  will  of  Phcebe. 


MARGARET  RICHARDSON  223 

Instantly  she  brightened,  and  good  humor  once  more  flashed 
over  her  grimy  features. 

"H-m!  that's  the  stuff!  There's  one  thing  you  hadn't 
ought  to  forget,  and  mind,  I'm  speaking  as  one  lady-friend  to 
another  when  I  tell  you  these  things  —  and  that  is,  that  you  have 
a  right  to  do  as  the  other  girls  in  the  factory  or  you'll  never  get 
'long  with  them.  If  you  don't  they'll  get  down  on  you,  sure's 
pussy's  a  cat;  and  then  they'll  make  it  hot  for  you  with  com- 
plaining to  the  forelady.  And  then  she'll  get  down  on  you 
after  while  too,  and  won't  give  you  no  good  orders  to  work  on; 
and  —  well,  it's  just  this  way:  a  girl  mustn't  be  odd." 

Continuing  her  philosophy  of  success,  Phoebe  proceeded  to 
initiate  me  into  the  first  process  of  my  job,  which  consisted  in 
pasting  slippery,  sticky  strips  of  muslin  over  the  corners  of  the 
rough  brown  boxes  that  were  piled  high  about  us  in  frail,  totter- 
ing towers  reaching  to  the  ceiling,  which  was  trellised  over  with 
a  network  of  electric  wires  and  steam-pipes.  Two  hundred  and 
fifty  of  these  boxes  remained  to  be  finished  on  the  particular 
order  upon  which  Phoebe  was  working.  Each  must  be  given 
eight  muslin  strips,  four  on  the  box  and  four  on  its  cover;  two 
tapes,  inserted  with  a  hair-pin  through  awl-holes;  two  tissue 
"flies,"  to  tuck  over  the  bonnet  soon  to  nestle  underneath; 
four  pieces  of  gay  paper  lace  to  please  madame's  eye  when  the 
fid  is  lifted;  and  three  labels,  one  on  the  bottom,  one  on  the 
top,  and  one  bearing  the  name  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  modiste  on 
an  escutcheon  of  gold  and  purple. 

The  job,  as  it  progressed,  entailed  ceaseless  shoving  and 
shifting  and  lifting.  In  order  that  we  might  not  be  walled  in 
completely  by  our  cumbersome  materials,  every  few  minutes 
we  bore  tottering  piles  across  the  floor  to  the  "strippers." 

These  latter,  who  were  small  girls,  covered  the  sides  with 
glazed  paper  on  machines;  and  as  fast  as  each  box  was  thus 
covered  it  was  tossed  to  the  "turner-in,"  a  still  smaller  girl, 
who  turned  in  the  overlapping  edge  of  the  strip,  after  which 


224  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

the  box  was  ready  to  come  back  to  the  table  for  the  next  process 
at  our  hands. 

By  ten  o'clock,  with  Mrs.  Smith's  gay  violet-boxes  and  our 
own  bonnet-boxes,  we  had  built  a  snug  bower  all  round  our 
particular  table.  Through  its  paste-board  walls  the  din  and 
the  songs  came  but  faintly.  My  mates'  tongues  flew  as  fast 
as  their  fingers.  The  talk  was  chiefly  devoted  to  clothes, 
Phoebe's  social  activities,  and  the  evident  prosperity  of  Mrs. 
Smith's  husband's  folks,  among  whom  it  appeared  she  had  only 
recently  appeared  as  "Jeff's"  bride.  Having  exhausted  the 
Smiths,  she  again  gave  Phoebe  the  floor  by  asking: 

"Are  you  going  to-night?" 

"Well,  I  should  say!    Don't  I  look  it?" 

To  determine  by  Phoebe's  appearance  where  she  might  be 
going  were  an  impossibility  to  the  uninitiated,  for  her  dress  was 
an  odd  combination  of  the  extremes  of  wretchedness  and  luxury. 
A  woefully  torn  and  much-soiled  shirt-waist;  a  gorgeous  gold 
watch  worn  on  her  breast  like  a  medal;  a  black  taffeta  skirt, 
which,  under  the  glue-smeared  apron,  emitted  an  unmistakable 
frou-frou;  three  Nethersole  bracelets  on  her  wrist;  and  her 
feet  incased  in  colossal  shoes,  broken  and  stringless.  The  latter 
she  explained  to  Mrs.  Smith. 

"I  just  swiped  a  pair  of  paw's  and  brought  them  along  this 
morning,  or  I'd  be  dished  for  getting  into  them  high  heels 
to-night.  My  corns  and  bunions  'most  killed  me  yesterday  — 
they  always  do  break  out  bad  about  Easter.  My  pleasure 
club,"  she  explained,  turning  to  me  —  "my  pleasure  club, 
'The  Moonlight  Maids,'  give  a  ball  to-night."  Which  fact 
likewise  explained  the  curl-papers  as  well  as  the  slattern  shirt- 
waist, donned  to  save  the  evening  bodice  worn  to  the  factory 
that  morning  and  now  tucked  away  in  a  big  box  under  the  table. 

A  whole  side  of  our  pretty  violet-sprinkled  bower  caved  in  as 
a  little  "turner-in"  lurched  against  it  in  passing  with  a  top- 
heavy  column  of  boxes.    Through  the  opening  daylight  is  visible 


MARGARET  RICHARDSON  225 

once  more,  and  from  the  region  of  the  machines  is  heard  a  chorus 
of  voices  singing  "The  Fatal  Wedding." 

"Hot  a — i — r!"  Phoebe  intones  derisively.  "It's  a  wonder 
Angelina  wouldn't  get  a  new  song.  Them  strippers  6ing  that 
'Fatal  Wedding'  week  in  and  week  out." 

We  worked  steadily,  and  as  the  hours  dragged  on  I  began 
to  grow  dead  tired.  The  awful  noise  and  confusion,  the  terrific 
heat,  the  foul  smell  of  the  glue,  and  the  agony  of  breaking 
ankles  and  blistered  hands  seemed  almost  unendurable. 

At  last  the  hour-hand  stood  at  twelve,  and  suddenly,  out  of 
the  turmoil,  a  strange  quiet  fell  over  the  great  mill.  The  vi- 
brations that  had  shaken  the  whole  structure  to  its  very  foun- 
dations now  gradually  subsided;  the  wheels  stayed  their  endless 
revolutions;  the  flying  belts  now  hung  from  the  ceiling  like  long 
black  ribbons.  Out  of  the  stillness  girl- voices  and  girl-laughter 
echoed  weirdly,  like  a  horn  blown  in  a  dream,  while  sweeter  and 
clearer  than  ever  rang  Phcebe's  soprano  "Hot  air!" 

The  girls  lunched  in  groups  of  ten  and  twelve.  Each  clique 
had  its  leader.  By  an  unwritten  law  I  was  included  among  those 
who  rallied  around  Phcebe,  most  of  whom  she  had  "learned" 
at  some  time  or  other,  as  she  was  now  "learning"  me.  The 
luncheons  were  divested  of  their  newspaper  wrappings  and  spread 
over  the  ends  of  tables,  on  discarded  box-lids  held  across  the 
knees  —  in  fact,  any  place  convenience  or  sociability  dictated. 
Then  followed  a  friendly  exchange  of  pickles  and  cake.  A 
dark,  swarthy  girl,  whom  they  called  "Goldy"  Courtleigh, 
was  generous  in  the  distribution  of  the  lukewarm  contents  of  a 
broken-nosed  tea-pot,  which  was  constantly  replenished  by 
application  to  the  hot-water  faucet. 

Although  we  had  a  half-hour,  luncheon  was  swallowed  quickly 
by  most  of  the  girls,  eager  to  steal  away  to  a  sequestered  bower 
among  the  boxes,  there  to  lose  themselves  in  paper-backed 
romance.  A  few  of  less  literary  taste  were  content  to  nibble 
ice-cream  sandwiches  and  gossip.     Dress,  the  inevitable  mas- 


226  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

querade  ball,  murders  and  fires,  were  favorite  topics  of  dis- 
cussion, —  the  last  always  with  lowered  voices  and  deep-drawn 
breathing.  For  fire  is  the  box-maker's  terror,  the  grim  specter 
that  always  haunts  her,  and  with  good  reason  does  she  always 
start  at  the  word. 

"I'm  always  afraid,"  declared  Phoebe,  "and  I  always  run  to 
the  window  and  get  ready  to  jump  the  minute  I  hear  the  alarm." 

"I  don't,"  mused  Angelina;  "I  haven't  sense  enough  to 
jump.  I  faint  dead  away.  There'd  be  no  chance  for  me  if  a 
fire  ever  broke  out  here." 

Once  or  twice  there  was  mention  of  beaux  and  "steady 
fellows,"  but  the  flesh-and- blood  man  of  everyday  life  did  not 
receive  as  much  attention  in  this  lunch  chat  as  did  the  heroes 
of  the  story-books. 

While  it  was  evident,  of  course,  from  scattered  comments, 
that  box-makers  are  constantly  marrying,  it  was  likewise 
apparent  that  they  have  not  sufficient  imagination  to  invest 
their  hard-working,  sweat-grimed  sweethearts  with  any  halo 
of  romance. 

Promptly  at  half -past  twelve  the  awakening  machinery 
called  us  back  to  the  workaday  world.  Story-books  were 
tucked  away,  and  their  entranced  readers  dragged  themselves 
back  to  the  machines  and  steaming  paste-pots,  to  dream  and 
to  talk  as  they  worked,  not  of  their  own  fellows  of  last  night's 
masquerade,  but  of  bankers  and  mill-owners  who  in  fiction 
have  wooed  and  won  and  honorably  wedded  just  such  poor 
toilers  as  they  themselves. 

II 

"  Don't  you  never  read  no  story-books?"  Mrs.  Smith  asked, 
stirring  the  paste-pot  preparatory  to  the  afternoon's  work. 
She  looked  at  me  curiously  out  of  her  shrewd,  snapping  dark 
eyes  as  she  awaited  my  answer.  I  was  conscious  that  Mrs. 
Smith  didn't  like  me  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  I  was  anxious 


MARGARET  RICHARDSON  227 

to  propitiate  her.  I  was  pretty  certain  she  thought  me  a  bore- 
some  prig,  and  I  determined  I'd  prove  I  wasn't.  My  confes- 
sion of  an  omnivorous  appetite  for  all  sorts  of  story-books 
had  the  desired  effect;  and  when  I  confessed  further  that  I 
liked  best  of  all  a  real,  tender,  sentimental  love-story,  she 
asked  amiably: 

"How  do  you  like  Little  Rosebud's  Lovers?" 

"I've  never  read  that,"  I  replied.     "Is  it  good?  " 

"It's  fine,"  interposed  Phcebe;  "but  I  like  Woven  on  Fate's 
Loom  better  —  don't  you?"     The  last  addressed  to  Mrs.  Smith. 

"No,  I  can't  say  as  that's  my  impinion,"  returned  our  vis-a- 
vis, with  a  judicious  tipping  of  the  head  to  one  side  as  she  soused 
her  dripping  paste-brush  over  the  strips.  "Not  but  what 
Woven  on  Fate's  Loom  is  a  good  story  in  its  way,  either,  for  them 
that  likes  that  sort  of  story.  But  I  think  Little  Rosebud's 
Lovers  is  more  int'res/ing,  besides  being  better  wrote." 

"And  that's  just  what  I  don't  like  about  it,"  retorted  Phcebe, 
her  fingers  traveling  like  lightning  up  and  down  the  corners  of 
the  boxes.  "You  like  this  hot-air  talk,  and  I  don't;  and  the 
way  them  fellows  and  girls  shoot  hot-air  at  each  other  in  that 
there  Little  Rosebud's  Lovers  is  enough  to  beat  the  street- 
cars!" 

"What  is  it  about?"  I  asked  with  respectful  interest,  address- 
ing the  question  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who  gave  promise  of  being  a 
more  serious  reviewer  than  the  flippant  Phcebe.  Mrs.  Smith 
took  a  bite  of  gingerbread  and  began: 

"It's  about  a  fair,  beautiful  young  girl  by  the  name  of  Rose- 
bud Arden.  Her  pa  was  a  judge,  and  they  lived  in  a  grand 
mansion  in  South  Car'lina.  Little  Rosebud  —  that's  what 
everybody  called  her  —  had  a  stepsister  Maud.  They  was  both 
beauties,  only  Maud  didn't  have  a  lovely  disposition  like  Little 
Rosebud.  A  Harvard  gradjate  by  the  name  of  Percy  Fielding 
got  stuck  on  Little  Rosebud  for  the  wealth  she  was  to  get  from 
her  pa,  and  she  was  terrible  stuck  on  him.     She  was  stuck  on 


228  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

him  for  fair,  though  not  knowing  he  was  a  villian  of  the  deepest 
dye.  That's  what  the  book  called  him.  He  talked  her  into 
marrying  him  clandestinely.  Maud  and  her  mother  put  up 
a  job  to  get  rid  of  Little  Rosebud,  so  Maud  could  get  all  the 
money.  So  they  told  lies  to  her  pa,  who  loved  her  something 
awful;  and  one  night,  when  she  came  in  after  walking  in  the 
grand  garden  with  her  husband,  who  nobody  knew  she  was 
married  to,  she  found  herself  locked  out.  Then  she  went  to 
the  hotel  where  he  was  staying,  and  told  him  what  had  happened; 
but  he  turned  her  down  flat  when  he  heard  it,  for  he  didn't 
want  nothing  to  do  with  her  when  she  wasn't  to  get  her  pa's 
money;  and  then  —  " 

She  stopped  her  cornering  to  inspect  my  work,  which  had  not 
flagged  an  instant.  Mrs.  Smith  took  another  bite  of  ginger- 
bread, and  continued  with  increasing  animation: 

"And  then  Little  Rosebud  turned  away  into  the  night  with 
a  low  cry,  just  as  if  a  dagger  had  been  punched  into  her  heart 
and  turned  around  slow.  She  was  only  sixteen  years  old, 
and  she  had  been  brought  up  in  luxury  and  idolized  by  her 
father;  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  found  herself  homeless,  with 
nowheres  to  sleep  and  no  money  to  get  a  room  at  the  hotel, 
and  scorned  by  the  man  that  had  sworn  to  protect  her.  Her 
pa  had  cursed  her,  too,  something  awful,  so  that  he  burst  a 
blood-vessel  a  little  while  afterwards  and  died  before  morning. 
Only  Little  Rosebud  never  found  this  out,  for  she  took  the 
midnight  express  and  came  up  here  to  New  York,  where  her 
aunt  lived,  only  she  didn't  know  the  street-number." 

"Where  did  she  get  the  money  to  come  to  New  York  with?" 
interrupted  the  practical  Phoebe.  "That's  something  I  don't 
understand.  If  she  didn't  have  no  money  to  hire  a  room  at  a 
hotel  down  in  South  Carolina  for  overnight,  I'd  like  to  know 
where  she  got  money  for  a  railroad  ticket." 

"Well,  that's  just  all  you  know  about  them  swells,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Smith.     "I  suppose  a  rich  man's  daughter  like  that  can 


MARGARET  RICHARDSON  229 

travel  around  all  over  the  country  on  a  pass.  And  saying  she 
didn't  have  a  pass,  it's  only  a  story  and  not  true  anyway. 

"She  met  a  fellow  on  the  train  that  night  who  was  a  villian 
for  fair!"  she  went  on.  "His  name  was  Mr.  Paul  Howard,  and 
he  was  a  corker.  Little  Rosebud,  who  was  just  as  innocent  as 
they  make  'em,  fell  right  into  his  clutches.  He  was  a  terrible 
man;  he  wouldn't  stop  at  nothing,  but  he  was  a  very  elegant- 
looking  gentleman  that  you'd  take  anywheres  for  a  banker  or 
'Piscopalian  preacher.  He  tipped  his  hat  to  Little  Rosebud, 
and  then  she  up  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  her  aunt,  Mrs. 
Waldron,  lived.  This  was  nuts  for  him,  and  he  said  yes,  that 
Mrs.  Waldron  was  a  particular  lady-friend  of  his.  When  they 
got  to  New  York  he  offered  to  take  Little  Rosebud  to  her  aunt's 
house.  And  as  Little  Rosebud  hadn't  no  money,  she  said 
yes,  and  the  villian  called  a  cab  and  they  started  for  Brooklyn, 
him  laughing  to  himself  all  the  time,  thinking  how  easily  she 
was  going  to  tumble  into  the  trap  he  was  getting  fixed  for 
her." 

"Hot  air!"  murmured  Phoebe. 

"But  while  they  were  rattling  over  the  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
another  man  was  following  them  in  another  cab  —  a  Wall- 
street  broker  with  barrels  of  cash.  He  was  Raymond  Leslie, 
and  a  real  good  man.  He'd  seen  Rosebud  get  into  the  cab  with 
Paul  Howard,  who  he  knew  for  a  villian  for  fair.  They  had  a 
terrible  rumpus,  but  Raymond  Leslie  rescued  her  and  took  her 
to  her  aunt's  house.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  the  gentleman- 
friend  of  Little  Rosebud's  cousin  Ida,  the  very  place  they  were 
going  to.  But,  riding  along  in  the  cab,  he  fell  in  love  with  Little 
Rosebud,  and  then  he  was  in  a  terrible  pickle  because  he  was 
promised  to  Ida.  Little  Rosebud's  relations  lived  real  grand, 
and  her  aunt  was  real  nice  to  her  until  she  saw  she  had  hooked 
on  to  Ida's  gentleman-friend;  then  they  put  her  to  work  in  the 
kitchen  and  treated  her  terrible.  Oh,  I  tell  you  she  had  a  time 
of  it,  for  fair.     Her  aunt  was  awful  proud  and  wicked,  and  after 


230  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

while,  when  she  found  that  Raymond  Leslie  was  going  to  marry 
Little  Rosebud  even  if  they  did  make  a  servant  of  her,  she  hired 
Paul  Howard  to  drug  her  and  carry  her  off  to  an  insane  asylum 
that  he  ran  up  in  Westchester  County.  It  was  in  a  lonesome 
place,  and  was  full  of  girls  that  he  had  loved  only  to  grow  tired 
of  and  cast  off,  and  this  was  the  easiest  way  to  get  rid  of  them 
and  keep  them  from  spoiling  his  sport.  Once  a  girl  was  in  love 
with  Paul  Howard,  she  loved  him  till  death.  He  just  fascinated 
women  like  a  snake  does  a  bird,  and  he  was  hot  stuff  as  long  as 
he  lasted,  but  the  minute  he  got  tired  of  you  he  was  a  demon 
of  cruelty. 

"He  did  everything  he  could,  when  he  got  Little  Rosebud 
here,  to  get  her  under  his  power.  He  tried  his  dirty  best  to 
poison  her  food,  but  Little  Rosebud  was  foxy  and  wouldn't 
touch  a  bite  of  anything,  but  just  sat  in  her  cell  and  watched 
the  broiled  chicken  and  fried  oysters,  and  all  the  other  good 
things  they  sent  to  tempt  her,  turn  to  a  dark-purplish  hue. 
One  night  she  escaped  disguised  in  the  turnkey's  daughter's 
dress.  Her  name  was  Dora  Gray,  and  Paul  Howard  had 
blasted  her  life  too,  but  she  worshiped  him  something  awful, 
all  the  same-ee.  Dora  Gray  gave  Little  Rosebud  a  lovely 
dark-red  rose  that  was  soaked  with  deadly  poison,  so  that  if 
you  touched  it  to  the  lips  of  a  person,  the  person  would  drop 
dead.  She  told  Little  Rosebud  to  protect  herself  with  it  if 
they  chased  her.  But  she  didn't  get  a  chance  to  see  whether 
it  would  work  or  not,  for  when  she  heard  them  coming  back  of 
her  after  a  while  with  the  bloodhounds  barking,  she  dropped 
with  terror  down  flat  on  her  stummick.  She  had  suffered  so 
much  she  couldn't  stand  anything  more.  The  doctors  said  she 
was  dead  when  they  picked  her  up,  and  they  buried  her  and 
stuck  a  little  white  slab  on  her  grave,  with  'Rosebud,  aged 
sixteen'  on  it." 

"Hot  air!"  from  the  irrepressible  Phoebe. 

I  felt  that  courtesy  required  I  should  agree  upon  that  point, 


MARGARET  RICHARDSON  231 

and  I  did  so,  conservatively,  venturing  to  ask  the  name  of  the 
author. 

Mrs.  Smith  mentioned  the  name  of  a  well-known  writer  of 
trashy  fiction  and  added,  "Didn't  you  never  read  none  of  her 
books?" 

My  negative  surprised  her.     Then  Phoebe  asked: 

"Did  you  ever  read  Daphne  Vernon;  or,  A  Coronet  of 
Shame?" 

"No,  I  haven't  read  them,  either,"  I  replied. 

"Oh,  mama!  Carry  me  out  and  let  me  die!"  groaned  Mrs. 
Smith,  throwing  down  her  paste-brush  and  falling  forward  in 
mock  agony  upon  the  smeared  table. 

"Water!  Water!"  gasped  Phcebe,  clutching  wildly  at  her 
throat;  "I'm  going  to  faint!" 

"What's  the  matter?  What  did  I  say  that  wasn't  right?" 
I  cried,  the  nature  of  their  antics  showing  only  too  plainly  that 
I  had  "put  my  foot  in  it"  in  some  unaccountable  manner. 
But  they  paid  no  attention.  Mortified  and  utterly  at  sea,  I 
watched  their  convulsed  shoulders  and  heard  their  smothered 
giggles.  Then  in  a  few  minutes  they  straightened  up  and 
resumed  work  with  the  utmost  gravity  of  countenance  and 
without  a  word  of  explanation. 

"What  was  it  you  was  asting?"  Phcebe  inquired  presently, 
with  the  most  innocent  air  possible. 

"I  said  I  hadn't  read  the  books  you  mentioned,"  I  replied, 
trying  to  hide  the  chagrin  and  mortification  I  felt  at  being  so 
ignominiously  laughed  at. 

"Eyether  of  them?"  chirped  Mrs.  Smith,  with  a  vicious  wink. 

"Eyether  of  them?"  warbled  Phcebe  in  her  mocking-bird 
soprano. 

It  was  my  turn  to  drop  the  paste-brush  now.  Eye-ther! 
It  must  have  slipped  from  my  tongue  unconsciously.  I  could 
not  remember  having  ever  pronounced  the  word  like  that 
before. 


232  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

I  didn't  feel  equal,  then  and  there,  to  offering  them  any 
explanation  or  apologies  for  the  offense.     So  I  simply  answered: 

"No;  are  they  very  good?  are  they  as  good  as  Little  Rosebud's 
Lovers?" 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  decisively  and  a  little  con- 
temptuously; "and  it  ain't  two  books,  eye-ther;  it's  all  in  one 
—  Daphne  Vernon;  or,  A  Coronet  of  Shame." 

"Well,  now  I  think  it  is,"  put  in  Phcebe.  "Them  stories 
with  two-handled  names  is  nearly  always  good.  I'll  buy  a 
book  with  a  two-handled  name  every  time  before  I'll  buy 
one  that  ain't.  I  was  reading  a  good  one  last  night  that  I 
borrowed  from  Gladys  Carringford.  It  had  three  handles  to  its 
name,  and  they  was  all  corkers." 

"Why  don't  you  spit  'em  out?"  suggested  Mrs.  Smith. 
"Tell  us  what  it  was." 

"Well,  it  was  Doris;  or,  The  Pride  of  Pemberton  Mills;  or, 
Lost  in  a  Fearful  Fate's  Abyss.     What  d'ye  think  of  that  ?  " 

"It  sounds  very  int'res/ing.     Who  wrote  it?" 

"Charles  Garvice,"  replied  Phcebe.  "  Didn't  you  ever  read 
none  of  his,  e — y — e — ther?" 

"No,  I  must  say  I  never  did,"  I  answered,  ignoring  their 
mischievous  raillery  with  as  much  grace  as  I  could  summon, 
but  taking  care  to  choose  my  words  as  so  to  avoid  further 
pitfalls. 

"And  did  you  never  read  none  of  Charlotte  M.  Braeme's?" 
drawled  Mrs.  Smith,  with  remorseless  cruelty  —  "none  of 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme's,  eyether?" 

"No." 

"Nor  none  by  Eme  Adelaide  Rowlands,  e — y — e — ther?" 
still  persisted  Mrs.  Smith. 

"No;  none  by  her." 

"E — y — e — ther!"  Both  my  tormentors  now  raised  their 
singing-voices  into  a  high,  clear,  full-blown  note  of  derisive 
music,  held   it   for  a  brief  moment  at   a  dizzy  altitude,  and 


MARGARET   RICHARDSON  233 

then  in  soft,  long-drawn-out  cadences  returned  to  earth  and 
speaking- voices  again. 

"What  kind  of  story-books  do  you  read,  then?"  they  de- 
manded. To  which  I  replied  with  the  names  of  a  dozen  or 
more  of  the  simple,  e very-day  classics  that  the  school-boy 
and  -girl  are  supposed  to  have  read.  They  had  never  heard  of 
David  Copperfield  or  of  Dickens.  Nor  had  they  ever  heard  of 
Gullivers  Travels,  nor  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  They  had 
heard  the  name  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  but  they  did  not  know 
it  was  the  name  of  an  entrancing  romance.  Little  Women, 
John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  Les 
Miserables,  were  also  unknown,  unheard-of  literary  treasures. 
They  were  equally  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  the  conventional 
Sunday-school  romance.  They  stared  at  me  in  amazement 
when  I  rattled  off  a  heterogeneous  assortment  from  the  fecund 
pens  of  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney,  "Pansy,"  Amanda  M.  Douglas, 
and  similar  good-goody  writers  for  good-goody  girls;  their 
only  remarks  being  that  their  titles  didn't  sound  interesting. 
I  spoke  enthusiastically  of  Little  Women,  telling  them  how  I 
had  read  it  four  times,  and  that  I  meant  to  read  it  again  some 
day.  Their  curiosity  was  aroused  over  the  unheard-of  thing 
of  anybody  ever  wanting  to  read  any  book  more  than  once, 
and  they  pressed  me  to  reciprocate  by  repeating  the  story  for 
them,  which  I  did  with  great  accuracy  of  statement,  and  with 
genuine  pleasure  to  myself  at  being  given  an  opportunity  to 
introduce  anybody  to  Meg  and  Jo  and  all  the  rest  of  that  de- 
lightful March  family.  When  I  had  finished,  Phoebe  stopped 
her  cornering  and  Mrs.  Smith  looked  up  from  her  label-pasting. 

"Why,  that's  no  story  at  all,"  the  latter  declared. 

"Why,  no,"  echoed  Phcebe;  "that's  no  story  —  that's  just 
everyday  happenings.  I  don't  see  what's  the  use  putting  things 
like  that  in  books.  I'll  bet  any  money  that  lady  what  wrote 
it  knew  all  them  boys  and  girls.  They  just  sound  like  real, 
live  people;    and  when  you  was  telling  about  them  I  could 


234  SCENES  IN  FACTORIES 

just  see  them  as  plain  as  plain  could  be  —  couldn't  you, 
Gwendolyn?" 

"Yep,"  yawned  our  vis-a-vis,  undisguisedly  bored. 

"But  I  suppose  farmer  folks  likes  them  kind  of  stories," 
Phoebe  generously  suggested.  "They  ain't  used  to  the  same 
styles  of  anything  that  us  city  folks  are." 


XVII.  THE  SPIRIT  OF  A  GREAT  CITY1 
Robert  Herrick 

[This  sketch  and  that  called  City  Smoke  make  a  philosophical  comment  on  the 
life  pictured  in  the  intervening  selection,  Scenes  in  Factories^] 

He  came  to  the  end  of  his  journey  as  night  was  falling. 

There  it  lay,  the  great  City  of  men,  beneath  a  soft  canopy 
of  diffused  light  upon  the  southern  horizon.  Long  he  watched 
the  illumined  heavens  with  greedy  eyes,  as  the  train,  crying 
shrilly,  rushed  through  the  empty  stillness  of  the  summer  night. 
That  distant  sky  seemed  radiant  with  earth-born  fires,  softly 
transfused  in  the  upper  ether  to  heavenly  beauty.  Beneath, 
the  great  City  pulsed  like  a  monstrous  creature,  breathing 
forth  this  phosphorescent  glow  upon  the  sky. 

His  heart  beat  quickly  in  unaccustomed  tumult. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  creature  came  as  the  train  penetrated 
the  peopled  fringe,  where  long  lines  of  dotted  light  stretched 
forth  to  the  silent  country,  until  at  last  the  radiance  of  the  heav- 
ens melted  into  the  glare  of  the  City  itself.  The  monster 
murmur  of  its  voice  filled  his  expectant  ears.     It  was  the  City! 

Time  with  its  orderly  hand  touched  that  first  blur  of  im- 
pressions and  memories,  erasing  most,  transforming,  vivifying 
high  points  of  experience,  until  a  picture  was  left  in  large  out- 
lines, gleaming  here  and  there  with  significant  light,  in  which 
the  trivial  and  the  important  were  blended.  Thus,  first  of  all 
he  found  himself  somehow  upon  a  lofty  bridge,  swung  by  spidery 
threads  of  steel  above  an  immense  void.  He  was  alone,  yet 
one  of  a  thronging  multitude  that  tramped  ceaselessly  past 
him.    Men   and  women   in  rough   garments,   with  pale,   set 

1  Reprinted  from  A  Life  for  a  Life  with  the  kind  permission  of  The  Macmillan 
Company  and  of  the  author. 


236  THE  SPIRIT  OF  A  GREAT  CITY 

faces,  with  bent  heads,  —  not  in  groups  of  ones  and  twos  and 
threes,  but  in  a  solid  mass,  —  flowing,  flowing  outwards  from 
the  City  like  the  tide  beneath  the  bridge,  drawn  outwards 
to  the  sea.  There  were  no  human  voices,  no  friendly  glances 
to  the  stranger  stemming  their  tide.  Beneath  was  a  void,  above 
where  the  shadowy  strands  faded  into  the  dark,  a  void;  be- 
yond, the  City  and  behind,  the  City.  And  steadily,  inces- 
santly, here  on  the  great  causeway,  this  tide  of  human  atoms,  — 
a  black  tide  flowing  outwards!  It  was  the  tide  of  labor.  Ebbing 
now,  the  day's  work  done,  seeking  repose,  to  be  sucked  back 
on  the  morrow  into  the  City.  Thus  the  City,  one  vast  labor 
house,  charged  itself  daily  with  human  energy,  and  at  night 
discharged  itself  along  a  thousand  channels  like  this  bridge. 
Always  and  always  it  was  thus,  day  after  day,  month  by  month, 
year  upon  year. 

In  the  time  to  come  of  full  man's  experience,  when  he  thought 
of  the  City  he  would  see  this  human  tide  of  labor  flowing  silently 
across  the  great  bridge,  hung  aloft  in  the  void,  a  dark  tide  of 
men  and  women  with  white,  set  faces  and  bent  heads,  as  though 
leaning  against  the  blast  of  destiny  that  threatened  to  sweep 
them  forth  into  the  void.  Drawn  by  the  magnet  of  Hunger, 
they  flowed  ever  thus  to  and  from  the  labor  house,  tramping 
silently,  the  multitude  of  human  atoms,  —  the  legs  and  the 
arms  and  the  bodies,  the  heads  and  the  hands  and  the  minds,  of 
men.  A  Symbol,  a  significant  sign  of  that  city  of  men!  The 
youth  caught  there  midway  in  the  flood  beheld  his  arena.  .  .  . 

In  those  days  the  towered  city  had  not  risen,  and  yet  to  the 
youth  looking  over  the  great  plain  of  buildings  the  stores  and 
warehouses  beneath  him  seemed  immense,  twinkling  there  in 
a  maze  of  gaslight.  From  that  lower  point  of  the  City  where 
the  great  bridge  touched,  he  must  have  wandered  far  up  the 
avenues,  gay  and  peopled.  He  remembered  the  lighted  windows 
of  the  shops,  a  petty  enough  show  then  compared  with  what  they 
became,  nevertheless  rich  in  color  and  substance  to  the  hungry 


ROBERT  HERRICK  237 

eyes  of  ignorant  youth.  In  them  were  jewels  and  fine  ornaments 
and  clothes,  rich  foods  and  furniture  and  beautiful  trinkets,  — 
whatever  the  fancy  and  the  appetite  of  man  might  desire. 
Sated  with  wonder,  he  turned  from  them  to  the  people  in 
the  streets,  —  women  handsomely  dressed  in  rich  carriages 
trotting  forth  for  pleasure,  the  idling  throng  upon  the  pave- 
ment, the  bustle  about  the  doors  of  hotels,  —  always  light  and 
movement  in  the  great  city!  And  on  and  on  in  this  maze  of 
light  and  movement  he  wandered,  past  shops,  and  eating 
places,  and  theaters,  enticed  by  the  spell  of  the  place,  unmindful 
of  time  and  self.  Through  the  pageant  of  the  city's  summer 
night  he  passed,  the  solitary  youth,  with  seeing  eyes  and  open 
ears,  until  at  last  he  had  reached  those  quieter  upper  streets, 
about  a  large  park  where  there  were  great  dwelling-houses, 
removed  by  a  space  of  proud  reserve  from  the  common  ways, 
standing  in  dark  isolation  with  shaded  windows.  Staring  up 
at  these  great  houses  he  wondered  what  manner  of  people 
lived  behind  the  carefully  shuttered  windows. 

As  the  night  drew  on  and  the  city's  voice  sank  to  a  lower 
key,  he  retraced  his  steps  through  street  and  avenue,  emptier 
now,  yet  never  wholly  without  life.  On  and  on  he  went,  and 
always  there  were  buildings,  always  street  and  curb  and  solid 
wall,  as  if  the  city  had  spread  itself  over  the  entire  earth,  and 
peopled  it  with  crowded  beings. 

Once,  so  the  strange  fancy  came  to  him,  this  place  of  the 
city  was  silent  earth,  like  the  wind-swept  fields  beside  the  sea 
that  he  knew.  Once  there  had  been  earth  here,  stone  and  soil 
and  water,  bearing  green  things.  Now  men  had  covered  this 
earth  with  a  sheet  of  metal  and  planted  it  with  bricks  and 
mortar,  with  steel  and  glass.  They  had  carved  it  into  a  laby- 
rinth of  streets,  and  out  of  it  great  buildings  shot  upwards  like 
beacons  to  the  sky.  Thus  man  had  made  his  home  of  the 
silent  place  of  God!  It  glittered  and  smoked  and  hissed  in  the 
night,  calling  loudly  to  the  heavens,  throbbing  as  men  throb 


238  THE  SPIRIT  OF  A  GREAT  CITY 

with  desires,  made  by  men  for  men,  —  the  image  of  their  souls. 
The  City  was  man!  And  already  it  was  sowing  its  seed  in  the 
heart  of  the  youth,  this  night.  It  was  molding  him  as  it  molds 
the  millions,  after  its  fashion,  warming  his  blood  with  desire,  — • 
the  vast,  resounding,  gleaming  City.  .  .  . 

It  must  have  been  well  towards  the  dawn  when  his  aimless 
wandering  through  the  streets  brought  him  into  a  quiet  square. 
He  had  been  drawn  thither  by  the  bright  light  of  an  immense 
sign,  set  upon  the  roof  of  a  building.  In  mammoth  letters  that 
stretched  across  the  breadth  of  the  narrow  roof,  compact  of 
soft  fire,  the  message  burned  itself  upon  the  night. 

SUCCESS 

The  great  sign  shining  in  the  dark  night  from  the  roof  drew 
the  youth  as  the  candle  draws  the  moth.  He  moved  towards 
it  until  he  stood  beneath  the  tall  thin  shaft  of  building,  ten 
stories  high,  upon  which  the  glittering  sign  rested.  And  in 
the  light  that  radiated  from  the  illumination  above  he  read 
the  gilt  board  beneath: 

THE  SUCCESS  CORRESPONDENCE  SCHOOL 

Torch  above  and  text  beneath!  Gapingly  the  youth  looked 
up  at  the  gleaming  sign,  and  his  lips  parted  in  a  little  smile. 
In  his  heart  he  knew  that  this  sign  was  meant  for  him.  Fate 
had  led  his  footsteps  to  his  text.  It  burned  far  into  the  night, 
shooting  its  message  into  all  quarters,  printing  itself  in  the 
radiance  of  the  heavens.  This  was  the  text  of  the  great  City, 
its  watchword  day  and  night,  set  high  above  in  blazing  letters, 
burning  steadily,  a  brand  to  sink  into  the  souls  of  men.  This 
was  the  cry  that  he  heard  in  the  streets,  that  he  saw  in  the 
shop  windows,  in  the  carriages  and  silent  houses,  in  the  white, 
set  faces  of  men  and  women.  Success!  He  sat  down  upon 
the  curb  beneath  the  sign. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  239 

Some  day  his  friend,  —  the  bearded  Anarch,  —  pointing 
derisively  to  the  bright  symbol,  would  say  to  him,  "That 
is  the  one  word  in  the  language  that  needs  no  explanation. 
For  its  meaning  is  written  in  the  heart  of  every  human  being, 
—  ' life  as  I  will  it,  —  my  life! '  " 

Now  as  the  youth  sits  there  on  the  curb  he  hears  the  hum 
of  the  presses  in  the  basement  of  the  new  building.  For  un- 
knowingly the  blazing  sign  has  led  him  to  the  door  of  Mr. 
Benjamin  Gossom's  flourishing  establishment  of  popular 
education,  and  the  swift  presses  are  pouring  forth  thousands 
of  his  weekly  leaflets,  —  "Gossom's  Road  to  Success."  On 
the  morrow,  still  warm  from  the  press  and  smelling  of  paper  and 
ink,  these  Gossom  words  will  be  speeding  to  his  countrymen 
by  fast  trains  across  the  continent,  up  and  down  the  states, 
climbing  the  hills,  seeking  tiny  hamlets,  dull  country  towns, 
busy  little  cities,  spreading  broadcast  wherever  they  fall  among 
the  eighty  millions  their  winged  message.  Beneath  the  eaves 
on  the  tenth  floor,  behind  the  broad  gold  sign,  Gossom's  clever 
young  men  and  nimble  stenographers  have  been  feverishly 
preparing  this  winged  message  for  the  past  week,  working  far 
into  the  nights  to  get  the  perfect  mixture  of  fact  and  fiction,  — 
fable,  precept,  and  gossip.  "And  this,"  would  say  the  great 
Benjamin,  "is  the  people's  education  and  I  make  it! "  .  .  . 

The  youth  sat  there  at  the  feet  of  the  fiery  symbol  and  mused, 
as  if  aware  in  his  unsophisticated  mind  that  he  had  reached 
the  heart  of  the  City,  that  his  journey  of  wonder  and  question 
ended  here. 


XVIII.  THUNDER  AND  LIGHTNING1 
Thomas  Hardy 

[Gabriel  Oak,  who  had  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity  courted  Bathsheba  Ever- 
dene,  has  now  become  her  shepherd  on  a  large  farm  which  she  has  recently  in- 
herited. He  has  stood  by  and  watched  her  marry  a  fascinating  but  dissolute 
soldier,  Sergeant  Troy.  The  sergeant  is  not  much  of  a  farmer.  In  spite  of  threaten- 
ing weather,  he  has  left  some  newly  constructed  wheat-stacks  uncovered  and  given 
his  men  a  hilarious  harvest-supper  and  dance.  While  the  farm-hands  are  lying 
in  a  drunken  stupor,  a  violent  thunder-storm  comes  up.  Gabriel  Oak,  who  has 
taken  no  part  in  the  harvest-home,  goes  out  alone  to  cover  the  stacks,  if  possible, 
before  the  rain  comes.  In  contrast  to  the  atmosphere  of  the  last  three  selections, 
notice  in  this  one  and  the  next  two  the  sense  of  country  air,  country  sounds,  and 
a  more  spacious  stage  for  the  action. 3 

A  light  flapped  over  the  scene,  as  if  reflected  from  phos- 
phorescent wings  crossing  the  sky,  and  a  rumble  filled  the  air. 
It  was  the  first  arrow  from  the  approaching  storm,  and  it  fell 
wide. 

The  second  peal  was  noisy,  with  comparatively  little  visible 
lightning.  Gabriel  saw  a  candle  shining  in  Bathsheba's  bed- 
room, and  soon  a  shadow  moved  to  and  fro  upon  the  blind. 

Then  there  came  a  third  flash.  Maneuvers  of  a  most  extraor- 
dinary kind  were  going  on  in  the  vast  firmamental  hollows 
overhead.  The  lightning  now  was  the  color  of  silver,  and 
gleamed  in  the  heavens  like  a  mailed  army.  Rumbles  became 
rattles.  Gabriel  from  his  elevated  position  could  see  over 
the  landscape  for  at  least  half  a  dozen  miles  in  front.  Every 
hedge,  bush,  and  tree  was  distinct  as  in  a  line  engraving.  In  a 
paddock  in  the  same  direction  was  a  herd  of  heifers,  and  the 
forms  of  these  were  visible  at  this  moment  in  the  act  of  galloping 
about  in  the  wildest  and  maddest  confusion,  flinging  their  heels 
and  tails  high  into  the  air,  their  heads  to  earth.     A  poplar  in 

1  Reprinted  from  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd. 


THOMAS  HARDY  241 

the  immediate  foreground  was  like  an  ink-stroke  on  burnished 
tin.  Then  the  picture  vanished,  leaving  a  darkness  so  intense 
that  Gabriel  worked  entirely  by  feeling  with  his  hands. 

He  had  struck  his  ricking-rod,  groom,  or  poniard,  as  it  was 
indifferently  called  —  a  long  iron  lance,  sharp  at  the  extremity 
and  polished  by  handling  —  into  the  stack  to  support  the  sheaves. 
A  blue  light  appeared  in  the  zenith,  and  in  some  indescribable 
manner  flickered  down  near  the  top  of  the  rod.  It  was  the 
fourth  of  the  larger  flashes.  A  moment  later  and  there  was  a 
smack  —  smart,  clear,  and  short.  Gabriel  felt  his  position 
to  be  anything  but  a  safe  one,  and  he  resolved  to  descend. 

Not  a  drop  of  rain  had  fallen  as  yet.  He  wiped  his  weary 
brow,  and  looked  again  at  the  black  forms  of  the  unprotected 
stacks.  Was  his  life  so  valuable  to  him,  after  all?  What 
were  his  prospects  that  he  should  be  so  chary  of  running  risk, 
when  important  and  urgent  labor  could  not  be  carried  on 
without  such  risk?  He  resolved  to  stick  to  the  stack.  However, 
he  took  a  precaution.  Under  the  staddles  was  a  long  tethering 
chain,  used  to  prevent  the  escape  of  errant  horses.  This  he 
carried  up  the  ladder,  and  sticking  his  rod  through  the  clog  at 
one  end,  allowed  the  other  end  of  the  chain  to  trail  upon  the 
ground.  The  spike  attached  to  it  he  drove  in.  Under  the 
shadow  of  this  extemporized  lightning  conductor  he  felt  himself 
comparatively  safe. 

Before  Oak  had  laid  his  hands  upon  his  tools  again,  out 
leaped  the  fifth  flash,  with  the  spring  of  a  serpent  and  the 
shout  of  a  fiend.  It  was  green  as  an  emerald,  and  the  rever- 
beration was  stunning.  What  was  this  the  light  revealed  to 
him?  In  the  open  ground  before  him,  as  he  looked  over  the 
ridge  of  the  rick,  was  a  dark  and  apparently  female  form.  Could 
it  be  that  of  the  only  venturesome  woman  in  the  parish  —  Bath- 
sheba?     The  form  moved  on  a  step;  then  he  could  see  no  more. 

"Is  that  you,  ma'am?"  said  Gabriel,  to  the  darkness. 

"Who  is  there?"  said  the  voice  of  Bathsheba. 


242  THUNDER  AND  LIGHTNING 

"Gabriel.    I  am  on  the  rick,  thatching." 

"Oh,  Gabriel!  —  and  are  you?  I  have  come  about  them. 
The  weather  woke  me,  and  I  thought  of  the  corn.  I  am  so 
distressed  about  it  —  can  we  save  it,  anyhow?  I  cannot 
find  my  husband.     Is  he  with  you?" 

"He  is  not  here." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"Asleep  in  the  barn." 

"He  promised  that  the  stacks  should  be  seen  to,  and  now 
they  are  all  neglected!  Can  I  do  anything  to  help?  Liddy  is 
afraid  to  come  out.  Fancy  finding  you  here  at  such  an  hour! 
Surely  I  can  do  something?" 

"You  can  bring  up  some  reed-sheaves  to  me,  one  by  one, 
ma'am,  if  you  are  not  afraid  to  come  up  the  ladder  in  the  dark," 
said  Gabriel.  "Every  moment  is  precious  now,  and  that 
would  save  a  good  deal  of  time.  It  is  not  very  dark  when  the 
lightning  has  been  gone  a  bit." 

"I'll  do  anything,"  she  said  resolutely.  She  instantly  took 
a  sheaf  upon  her  shoulder,  clambered  up  close  to  his  heels, 
placed  it  behind  the  rod,  and  descended  for  another.  At  her 
third  ascent  the  rick  suddenly  brightened  with  the  brazen 
glare  of  shining  majolica  —  every  knot  in  every  straw  was 
visible.  On  the  slope  in  front  of  him  appeared  two  human 
shapes,  black  as  jet.  The  rick  lost  its  sheen  —  the  shapes 
vanished.  Gabriel  turned  his  head.  It  had  been  the  sixth 
flash  which  had  come  from  the  east  behind  him,  and  the  two 
dark  forms  on  the  slope  had  been  the  shadows  of  himself  and 
Bathsheba. 

Then  came  the  peal.  It  hardly  was  credible  that  such  a 
heavenly  light  could  be  the  parent  of  such  a  diabolical  sound. 

"How  terrible!"  she  exclaimed,  and  clutched  him  by  the 
sleeve.  Gabriel  turned,  and  steadied  her  on  her  aerial  perch 
by  holding  her  arm.  At  the  same  moment,  while  he  was  still 
reversed  in  his  attitude,  there  was  more  light,  and  he  saw  as  it 


THOMAS  HARDY  243 

were  a  copy  of  the  tall  poplar  tree  on  the  hill  drawn  in  black 
on  the  wall  of  the  barn.  It  was  the  shadow  of  that  tree  thrown 
across  by  a  secondary  flash  in  the  west. 

The  next  flare  came.  Bathsheba  was  on  the  ground  now, 
shouldering  another  sheaf,  and  she  bore  its  dazzle  without 
flinching  —  thunder  and  all  —  and  again  ascended  with  the 
load.  There  was  then  a  silence  everywhere  for  four  or  five 
minutes,  and  the  crunch  of  the  spars  as  Gabriel  hastily  drove 
them  in,  could  again  be  distinctly  heard.  He  thought  the  crisis 
of  the  storm  had  passed.     But  there  came  a  burst  of  light. 

"Hold  on!"  said  Gabriel,  taking  the  sheaf  from  her  shoulder 
and  grasping  her  arm  again. 

Heaven  opened  then,  indeed.  The  flash  was  almost  too  novel 
for  its  inexpressibly  dangerous  nature  to  be  at  once  realized, 
and  Gabriel  could  only  comprehend  the  magnificence  of  its 
beauty.  It  sprang  from  east,  west,  north,  south.  It  was  a 
perfect  dance  of  death.  The  forms  of  skeletons  appeared  in  the 
air,  shaped  with  blue  fire  for  bones  —  dancing,  leaping,  striding, 
racing  around  and  mingling  altogether  in  unparalleled  confusion. 
With  these  were  intertwined  undulating  snakes  of  green.  Be- 
hind these  was  a  broad  mass  of  lesser  light.  Simultaneously 
came  from  every  part  of  the  tumbling  sky  what  may  be  called 
a  shout;  since,  though  no  shout  ever  came  near  it,  it  was  more 
of  the  nature  of  a  shout  than  of  anything  else  earthly.  In  the 
meantime  one  of  the  grisly  forms  had  alighted  upon  the  point 
of  Gabriel's  rod,  to  run  invisibly  down  it,  down  the  chain,  and 
into  the  earth.  Gabriel  was  almost  blinded,  and  he  could  feel 
Bathsheba's  warm  arm  tremble  in  his  hand  —  a  sensation  novel 
and  thrilling  enough:  but  love,  life,  everything  human  seemed 
small  and  trifling  in  such  juxtaposition  with  an  infuriated 
universe. 

Oak  had  hardly  time  to  gather  up  these  impressions  into 
a  thought,  and  to  see  how  strangely  the  red  feather  of  her 
hat  shone  in  this  light,  when  the  tall  tree  on  the  hill  before 


244  THUNDER  AND  LIGHTNING 

mentioned  seemed  on  fire  to  a  white  heat,  and  a  new  one  among 
these  terrible  voices  mingled  with  the  last  crash  of  those  pre- 
ceding. It  was  a  stupefying  blast,  harsh  and  pitiless,  and  it 
fell  upon  their  ears  in  a  dead,  flat  blow,  without  that  reverber- 
ation which  lends  the  tones  of  a  drum  to  more  distant  thunder. 
By  the  luster  reflected  from  every  part  of  the  earth  and  from 
the  wide  domical  scoop  above  it,  he  saw  the  tree  was  sliced  down 
the  whole  length  of  its  tall,  straight  stem,  a  huge  ribbon  of  bark 
being  apparently  flung  off.  The  other  portion  remained  erect, 
and  revealed  the  bared  surface  as  a  strip  of  white  down  the 
front.  The  lightning  had  struck  the  tree.  A  sulphurous 
smell  filled  the  air;  then  all  was  silent,  and  black  as  a  cave  in 
Hinnom. 

"We  had  a  narrow  escape!"  said  Gabriel  hurriedly.  "You 
had  better  go  down." 

Bathsheba  said  nothing;  but  he  could  distinctly  hear  her 
rhythmical  pants,  and  the  recurrent  rustle  of  the  sheaf  beside 
her  in  response  to  her  frightened  pulsations.  She  descended 
the  ladder,  and,  on  second  thoughts,  he  followed  her.  The 
darkness  was  now  impenetrable  by  the  sharpest  vision.  They 
both  stood  still  at  the  bottom,  side  by  side.  Bathsheba  appeared 
to  think  only  of  the  weather  —  Oak  thought  only  of  her  just 
then.    At  last  he  said: 

"The  storm  seems  to  have  passed  now,  at  any  rate." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  said  Bathsheba;  "though  there  are  multi- 
tudes of  gleams  —  look!" 

The  sky  was  now  filled  with  an  incessant  light,  frequent 
repetition  melting  into  complete  continuity,  as  an  unbroken 
sound  results  from  the  successive  strokes  on  a  gong. 

"Nothing  serious,"  said  he.  "I  cannot  understand  no 
rain  falling.  But  Heaven  be  praised,  it  is  all  the  better  for 
us.    I  am  now  going  up  again." 

"Gabriel,  you  are  kinder  than  I  deserve!  I  will  stay  and 
help  you  yet.     Oh,  why  are  not  some  of  the  others  here!" 


THOMAS  HARDY  245 

"They  would  have  been  here  if  they  could,"  said  Oak,  in 
a  hesitating  way. 

"Oh,  I  know  it  all  —  all,"  she  said,  adding  slowly,  "they 
are  all  asleep  in  the  barn,  in  a  drunken  sleep,  and  my  husband 
among  them.  That's  it,  is  it  not?  Don't  think  I  am  a  timid 
woman,  and  can't  endure  things." 

"I  am  not  certain,"  said  Gabriel.     "I  will  go  and  see." 

He  crossed  to  the  barn,  leaving  her  there  alone.  He  looked 
through  the  chinks  of  the  door.  All  was  in  total  darkness, 
as  he  had  left  it,  and  there  still  arose,  as  at  the  former  time, 
the  steady  buzz  of  many  snores. 

He  felt  a  zephyr  curling  about  his  cheek,  and  turned.  It 
was  Bathsheba's  breath  —  she  had  followed  him,  and  was 
looking  into  the  same  chink. 

He  endeavored  to  put  off  the  immediate  and  painful  subject 
of  their  thoughts  by  remarking  gently:  "If  you'll  come  back 
again,  miss  —  ma'am,  and  hand  up  a  few  more;  it  would  save 
much  time." 

Then  Oak  went  back  again,  ascended  to  the  top,  stepped 
off  the  ladder  for  greater  expedition,  and  went  on  thatching. 


XIX.   GERARD  AND  THE  BEAR1 

Charles  Reade 

[Gerard  Eliason,  forced  to  flee  from  medieval  Holland,  makes  his  way  across 
Europe,  largely  on  foot,  toward  Rome.  In  the  Burgundian  forests,  he  falls  in 
with  an  older  man,  a  guide  and  philosopher,  who  does  much  to  cheer  him  on 
his  way.  Denys's  philosophy  is  summed  up  in  his  oft  repeated  phrase  —  "Courage, 
mon  ami,  le  diable  est  mortl"  But  there  are  other  dangers  to  a  young  scholar  in 
medieval  forests  besides  the  devil.  The  two  companions  have  killed  a  bear  cub 
and  are  carrying  it  along  between  them,  while  they  discuss  the  power  of  Denys's 
crossbow,  or  arbalest,  which  Denys  is  maintaining  will  never  be  supplanted  by  the 
petrone  and  harquebuss  with  their  "pinch  of  black  dust  and  a  leaden  ball,"  so 
lately  invented.] 

Gerard  did  not  answer,  for  his  ear  was  attracted  by  a  sound 
behind  them.  It  was  a  peculiar  sound,  too,  like  something 
heavy,  but  not  hard,  rushing  softly  over  the  dead  leaves.  He 
turned  round  with  some  little  curiosity.  A  colossal  creature 
was  coming  down  the  road  at  about  sixty  paces'  distance. 

He  looked  at  it  in  a  sort  of  calm  stupor  at  first,  but  the  next 
moment  he  turned  ashy  pale. 

"Denys!"  he  cried.     "Oh,  God!  Denys!" 

Denys  whirled  round. 

It  was  a  bear  as  big  as  a  cart-horse. 

It  was  tearing  along  with  its  huge  head  down,  running  on  a 
hot  scent. 

The  very  moment  he  saw  it  Denys  said  in  a  sickening  whisper, 

"The  Cub!" 

Oh!  the  concentrated  horror  of  that  one  word,  whispered 
hoarsely,  with  dilating  eyes!  For  in  that  syllable  it  all  flashed 
upon  them  both  like  a  sudden  stroke  of  lightning  in  the  dark  — 
the  bloody  trail,  the  murdered  cub,  the  mother  upon  them,  and 
it.    Death. 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 


CHARLES  READE  247 

All  this  in  a  moment  of  time.  The  next,  she  saw  them. 
Huge  as  she  was,  she  seemed  to  double  herself  (it  was  her  long 
hair  bristling  with  rage):  she  raised  her  head  big  as  a  bull's, 
her  swine-shaped  jaws  opened  wide  at  them,  her  eyes  turned  to 
blood  and  flame,  and  she  rushed  upon  them,  scattering  the 
leaves  about  her  like  a  whirlwind  as  she  came. 

"Shoot!"  screamed  Denys,  but  Gerard  stood  shaking  from 
head  to  foot,  useless. 

"Shoot,  man!  ten  thousand  devils,  shoot!  too  late!  Tree! 
tree!"  and  he  dropped  the  cub,  pushed  Gerard  across  the  road, 
and  flew  to  the  first  tree  and  climbed  it,  Gerard  the  same  on  his 
side;  and  as  they  fled,  both  men  uttered  inhuman  howls  like 
savage  creatures  grazed  by  death. 

With  all  their  speed  one  or  other  would  have  been  torn  to 
fragments  at  the  foot  of  his  tree;  but  the  bear  stopped  a  moment 
at  the  cub. 

Without  taking  her  bloodshot  eyes  off  those  she  was  hunting, 
she  smelt  it  all  round,  and  found,  how,  her  Creator  only  knows, 
that  it  was  dead,  quite  dead.  She  gave  a  yell  such  as  neither 
of  the  hunted  ones  had  ever  heard,  nor  dreamed  to  be  in  nature, 
and  flew  after  Denys.  She  reared  and  struck  at  him  as  he 
climbed.     He  was  just  out  of  reach. 

Instantly  she  seized  the  tree,  and  with  her  huge  teeth  tore  a 
great  piece  out  of  it  with  a  crash.  Then  she  reared  again,  dug 
her  claws  deep  into  the  bark,  and  began  to  mount  it  slowly, 
but  as  surely  as  a  monkey. 

Denys's  evil  star  had  led  him  to  a  dead  tree,  a  mere  shaft, 
and  of  no  very  great  height.  He  climbed  faster  than  his  pur- 
suer, and  was  soon  at  the  top.  He  looked  this  way  and  that 
for  some  bough  of  another  tree  to  spring  to.  There  was  none; 
and  if  he  jumped  down,  he  knew  the  bear  would  be  upon  him 
ere  he  could  recover  the  fall,  and  make  short  work  of  him. 
Moreover,  Denys  was  little  used  to  turning  his  back  on  danger, 
and  his  blood  was  rising  at  being  hunted.     He  turned  to  bay. 


248  GERARD  AND  THE  BEAR 

"My  hour  is  come,"  thought  he.  "Let  me  meet  death  like 
a  man."  He  kneeled  down  and  grasped  a  small  shoot  to  steady 
himself,  drew  his  long  knife,  and  clenching  his  teeth,  prepared 
to  jab  the  huge  brute  as  soon  as  it  should  mount  within  reach. 

Of  this  combat  the  result  was  not  doubtful. 

The  monster's  head  and  neck  were  scarce  vulnerable  for 
bone  and  masses  of  hair.  The  man  was  going  to  sting  the  bear, 
and  the  bear  to  crack  the  man  like  a  nut. 

Gerard's  heart  was  better  than  his  nerves.  He  saw  his 
friend's  mortal  danger,  and  passed  at  once  from  fear  to  blindish 
rage.  He  slipped  down  his  tree  in  a  moment,  caught  up  the 
crossbow,  which  he  had  dropped  in  the  road,  and  running 
furiously  up,  sent  a  bolt  into  the  bear's  body  with  a  loud  shout. 
The  bear  gave  a  snarl  of  rage  and  pain,  and  turned  its  head 
irresolutely. 

"Keep  aloof!"  cried  Denys,  "or  you  are  a  dead  man." 

"I  care  not;"  and  in  a  moment  he  had  another  bolt  ready 
and  shot  it  fiercely  into  the  bear,  screaming,  "Take  that!  take 
that!" 

Denys  poured  a  volley  of  oaths  down  at  him.  "Get  away, 
idiot!" 

He  was  right:  the  bear  finding  so  formidable  and  noisy  a 
foe  behind  him,  slipped  growling  down  the  tree,  rending  deep 
furrows  in  it  as  she  slipped.  Gerard  ran  back  to  his  tree  and 
climbed  it  swiftly.  But  while  his  legs  were  dangling  some 
eight  feet  from  the  ground,  the  bear  came  rearing  and  struck 
with  her  fore  paw,  and  out  flew  a  piece  of  bloody  cloth  from 
Gerard's  hose.  He  climbed,  and  climbed;  and  presently  he 
heard  as  it  were  in  the  air  a  voice  say,  "Go  out  on  the  bough!" 
He  looked,  and  there  was  a  long  massive  branch  before  him 
shooting  upwards  at  a  slight  angle:  he  threw  his  body  across 
it,  and  by  a  series  of  convulsive  efforts  worked  up  it  to  the 
end. 

Then  he  looked  round  panting. 


CHARLES  READE  249 

The  bear  was  mounting  the  tree  on  the  other  side.  He 
heard  her  claws  scrape,  and  saw  her  bulge  on  both  sides  of  the 
massive  tree.  Her  eye  not  being  very  quick,  she  reached  the 
fork  and  passed  it,  mounting  the  main  stem.  Gerard  drew 
breath  more  freely.  The  bear  either  heard  him,  or  found  by 
scent  she  was  wrong:  she  paused;  presently  she  caught  sight  of 
him.     She  eyed  him  steadily,  then  quietly  descended  to  the  fork. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  she  stretched  out  a  paw  and  tried  the 
bough.  It  was  a  stiff  oak  branch,  sound  as  iron.  Instinct 
taught  the  creature  this:  it  crawled  carefully  out  on  the  bough, 
growling  savagely  as  it  came. 

Gerard  looked  wildly  down.  He  was  forty  feet  from  the 
ground.  Death  below.  Death  moving  slow  but  sure  on  him 
in  a  still  more  horrible  form.  His  hair  bristled.  The  sweat 
poured  from  him.     He  sat  helpless,  fascinated,  tongue-tied. 

As  the  fearful  monster  crawled  growling  towards  him,  incon- 
gruous thoughts  coursed  through  his  mind.  Margaret:  the 
Vulgate,  where  it  speaks  of  the  rage  of  a  she-bear  robbed  of 
her  whelps  —  Rome  —  Eternity. 

The  bear  crawled  on.  And  now  the  stupor  of  death  fell  on 
the  doomed  man;  he  saw  the  open  jaws  and  bloodshot  eyes 
coming,  but  in  a  mist. 

As  in  a  mist  he  heard  a  twang;  he  glanced  down;  Denys, 
white  and  silent  as  death,  was  shooting  up  at  the  bear.  The 
bear  snarled  at  the  twang,  but  crawled  on.  Again  the  cross- 
bow twartged,  and  the  bear  snarled,  and  came  nearer.  Again 
the  cross-bow  twanged ;  and  the  next  moment  the  bear  was  close 
upon  Gerard,  where  he  sat,  with  hair  standing  stiff  on  end 
and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  palsied.  The  bear  opened 
her  jaws  like  a  grave,  and  hot  blood  spouted  from  them  upon 
Gerard  as  from  a  pump.  The  bough  rocked.  The  wounded 
monster  was  reeling;  it  clung,  it  stuck  its  sickles  of  claws 
deep  into  the  wood;  it  toppled,  its  claws  held  firm,  but  its 
body  rolled  off,  and  the  sudden  shock  to  the  branch  shook 


250  GERARD  AND  THE  BEAR 

Gerard  forward  on  his  stomach  with  his  face  upon  one  of  the 
bear's  straining  paws.  At  this,  by  a  convulsive  effort,  she 
raised  her  head  up,  up  till  he  felt  her  hot,  fetid  breath.  Then 
huge  teeth  snapped  together  loudly  close  below  him  in  the  air, 
with  a  last  effort  of  baffled  hate.  The  ponderous  carcass  rent 
the  claws  out  of  the  bough,  then  pounded  the  earth  with  a 
tremendous  thump.  There  was  a  shout  of  triumph  below, 
and  the  very  next  instant  a  cry  of  dismay,  for  Gerard  had 
swooned,  and  without  an  attempt  to  save  himself,  rolled  head- 
long from  the  perilous  height. 


XX.  TAD   SHELDON,  SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT1 
John  Fleming  Wilson 

"There  is  no  har-r-m  in  the  story,  though  it  speaks  ill  for  us 
big  people  with  Misther  to  our  names,"  said  Chief  Engineer 
Mickey  O'Rourke,  balancing  his  coffee  cup  between  his  two 
scarred  hands.  "Ye  remimber  the  lasht  toime  I  was  on  leave 
—  and  I  wint  down  to  Yaquina  Bay  with  Captain  Tyler  on  his 
tin  gas  schooner,  thinkin'  to  mesilf  it  was  a  holiday  —  and  all 
the  fun  I  had  was  instrhuctin'  the  gasoline  engineer  in  the 
mysteries  of  how  to  express  one's  sintimints  without  injurin' 
the  skipper's  feelin's?  Well,  I  landed  in  the  bay  and  walked 
about  in  the  woods,  which  is  foine  for  the  smell  of  thim  which 
is  like  fresh  tar;  and  one  afternoon  I  finds  two  legs  and  small 
feet  stickin'  out  of  a  hole  under  a  stump.  I  pulled  on  the  two 
feet  and  the  legs  came  out  and  at  the  end  of  thim  a  bhoy, 
mad  with  rage  and  dirt  in  his  eyes. 

'"Ye  have  spoiled  me  fun! '  says  he,  lookin'  at  me  very  fierce. 

" '  Do  yez  dig  yer  fun  out  of  the  ground  like  coal? '  I  demands. 

"'I'm  investigatin '  the  habits  of  squirrels,'  says  he.  'I 
must  find  out  how  a  squirrel  turns  round  in  his  hole.  Does 
he  turn  a  summersault  or  stick  his  tail  between  his  ears  and  go 
over  backward? ' 

"'He  turns  inside  out,  like  an  ould  sock,'  I  informs  him, 
and  he  scorns  me  natural  history.  On  the  strength  of  mutual 
language  we  got  acquainted.  He  is  Tad  Sheldon,  the  eldest  son 
of  Surf  man  No.  i,  of  the  lifesaving  crew.  He  is  fourteen  years 
ould.  Me  bould  Tad  has  troubles  of  his  own,  consisting  of 
five  other  youngsters  who  are  his  gang.  'We  are  preparing 
to  inter  the  ranks  of  the  Bhoy  Scouts,'  he  tells  me,  settin' 

1  Reprinted  from  Across  the  Latitudes,  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  author. 


252  TAD    SHELDON,  SECOND    CLASS   SCOUT 

be  the  side  of  the  squirrel-hole.  '  We  are  all  tenderfeet  and  we 
can't  get  enlisted  with  the  rest  of  the  bhoys  in  the  United 
States  because  each  scout  must  have  a  dollar  in  the  bank  and 
between  the  six  of  us  we  have  only  one  dollar  and  six  bits  and 
that's  in  me  mother's  apron  pocket  and  in  no  bank  at  all.' 

"'Explain,'  says  I. 

""Tis  this  way,'  says  me  young  sprig.  'All  the  bhoys  in 
the  country  of  America  have  joined  the  scouts,  which  is  an 
army  of  felleys  that  know  the  woods  and  about  animals  and  how 
to  light  a  fire,  and  know  the  law.' 

"'Stop!'  I  orders.  'No  one  knows  the  law  without  gold  in 
one  hand  and  a  book  in  the  other.  If  ye  knew  the  law  ye  would 
have  yer  dollar.' 

"'  'Tis  the  scouts'  law,'  says  he.  'It  tells  ye  to  obey  yer 
superiors  and  be  fair  to  animals  and  kind  to  people  ye  care 
little  for.  Ye  must  know  how  to  take  care  of  yourself  any- 
where and  be  ready  whin  the  counthry  needs  ye.' 

"'And  ye  need  a  dollar?'  I  asks.  'Thin,  why  not  work  for 
it  and  stop  pokin'  yer  nose  down  squirrel-holes,  where  there  is 
neither  profit  nor  wages? ' 

"'Because  I'm  to  be  the  pathrol-leader  and  I  must  know 
more  than  me  men,'  he  retorts. 

"Now,  ye  remimber  I  had  in  me  pocket  three  pay  checks, 
besides  the  money  of  Mr.  Lof,  the  second  engineer,  which  I 
had  got  for  him  and  was  carryin'  about  to  send  to  him  by  the 
first  friend  I  saw.  So  I  took  off  me  cap  and  pulled  out  one  of 
the  checks  and  said:  'Me  bould  bhoy,  go  down  to  the  town 
and  get  the  cash  for  this.  Bring  it  back  to  me  and  I'll  give  ye 
a  dollar;  and  thin  ye  can  become  a  scout.' 

"The  lad  looked  at  me  and  then  at  the  Governmint  check. 
He  shook  his  head  till  the  dirt  rolled  into  his  ears,  for  he  was 
still  full  of  the  clods  he  had  rubbed  into  himsilf  in  the  hole. 
'I  can't  take  a  dollar  from  a  man  in  the  service,'  he  says.  'I 
must  earn  it.' 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  253 

"The  Government's  money  is  clane,'  I  rebukes  him.  'I'm 
ould  and  me  legs  ends  just  above  me  feet,  so  that  I  walk  with 
difficulty.     Tis  worth  a  dollar  to  get  the  coin  without  trampinV 

"'I  will  earn  it  from  somebody  not  in  the  service,'  says  me 
bould  bhoy,  with  great  firmness. 

"'I'm  no  surf  man,  thank  Hivin!'  I  remarks.  'I'm  in  the 
establishmint  and  look  down  on  ye.' 

''If  I'd  known  ye  were  a  lighthouse  man  I'd  have  taken 
all  ye  had  at  first,'  he  retorts.  'But  ye  have  made  me  a  fair 
offer  and  I  forgive  ye.     My  father  works  for  his  living.' 

"Ye  know  how  the  life-savers  and  the  lighthouse  people  pass 
language  between  thim  whin  they  meet.  The  lad  and  I  ex- 
changed complimints,  but  he  spared  me  because  I  had  gray 
hairs.  '  In  time  ye  will  become  a  keeper  of  a  station  and  perform 
for  the  idification  of  the  summer  gur-rl,'  I  concludes.  'But, 
if  ye  were  more  industhrious  and  had  more  iducation,  ye  might 
in  time  get  into  the  establishmint  and  tind  a  third-order 
light.' 

'"Why  should  I  bury  mesilf  among  ould  min  without  arms 
and  legs?'  he  inquires  haughtily.  'Me  youngest  sister  clanes 
the  lamps  in  our  house  with  a  dirty  rag  and  an  ould  toothbrush.' 

"'Well,'  says  I,  seein'  that  it  was  poor  fortune  to  be  quar- 
relin'  with  a  slip  of  a  kid,  'do  yes  want  the  dollar  or  not?' 

"And  at  that  we  got  down  to  facts  and  he  explained  that  this 
scout  business  was  most  important.  It  appeared  that  the  other 
five  bhoys  depinded  on  him  to  extricate  thim  from  their  diffi- 
culties and  set  them  all  up  as  scouts,  with  uniforms  and  knives 
and  a  knowledge  of  wild  animals  and  how  to  build  a  fire  in  a 
bucket  of  watther.  We  debated  the  thing  back  and  forth  till 
the  sun  dropped  behind  the  trees  and  the  could  air  came  up  from 
the  ground  and  stuck  me  with  needles  of  rheumatism. 

"The  lad  was  a  good  lad  and  he  made  plain  to  me  why  his 
dollar  was  har-rd  to  get.  He  had  thought  of  savin'  the  life  of 
a  summer  visitor,  but  the  law  read  that  he  must  save  life  anyhow, 


254         TAD  SHELDON,   SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT 

without  lookin'  for  pay.  'And  we  can't  all  save  lives,'  he  mourns; 
'for  some  of  the  kids  is  too  young.' 

"'But  ye  must  earn  money,  ye  scut,'  I  says.  'Ye're  four- 
teen and  whin  I  was  that  age  I  was  me  mother's  support  and  joy. 
I  made  four  shilling's  a  wake  mixin'  plaster  for  a  tile-layer.' 

"'I  work,'  he  responds  dolefully.  'But  it  goes  to  me  mother 
to  put  with  the  savings  in  the  bank  against  the  time  me  father 
will  be  drowned  and  leave  us  without  support,  for  ye  must 
know  that  we  life-savers  get  no  pensions.' 

"'I  niver  hear-rd  of  a  life-saver  bein'  drownded,'  I  remarks. 
'But  it  may  be,  for  I  see  ye  are  of  an  exthraordinary  family 
and  anything  may  come  to  such.  How  many  are  there  of 
yez?' 

"'There  are  six  of  us  childher,  all  gur-rls  but  mesilf,'  says  he, 
with  rage  in  his  voice.  'And  Carson  —  he  was  No.  4  —  broke 
his  hip  in  a  wreck  last  week  and  died  of  the  bruise  and  left  five, 
which  the  crew  is  lookin'  after.  Young  Carson  is  one  of  me 
gang  and  makes  a  dollar  and  four  bits  a  week  deliverin'  clams 
to  the  summer  folks.     Ye  see  he  can't  save  a  dollar  for  the  bank.' 

"And  we  got  up  and  discussed  the  matther  going  down  the 
hill  toward  the  town.  Before  we  parted  Tad  tould  me  where 
he  lived. 

"'I'd  call  on  yer  father  and  mother,'  says  I,  'if  I  cud  be  sure 
they  would  appreciate  the  honor.  'Tis  a  comedown  for  an 
officer  in  the  lighthouse  establishmint  to  inter  the  door  of  a 
surf  man.' 

"'Me  father  has  a  kind  heart  and  is  good  to  the  ould,'  he 
answers  me      '  We  live  beyond  the  station,  on  the  bluff.' 

"With  that  we  went  our  ways  and  I  ate  an  imminse  meal  in 
the  hotel  with  the  dishes  all  spread  out  before  me  —  and  a  pretty 
gur-rl  behind  me  shoulder  to  point  out  the  best  of  thim.  Thin 
I  walked  out  and  started  for  the  house  of  me  bould  Tad. 

"I  found  thim  all  seated  in  the  parlor  excipt  the  missus,  who 
was  mixin'  bread  in  the  kitchen.     I  inthroduced  mesilf,  and 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  255 

Sheldon,  who  had  No.  1  on  his  sleeve,  offered  me  a  pipe,  which 
I  took.  I  came  down  to  business,  houldin'  me  cap  full  of  checks 
and  money  on  me  lap.  'Yer  bould  bhoy  wants  to  be  a  scout 
and  lacks  a  dollar,'  I  says.  '  I  like  his  looks,  though  I  discovered 
him  in  a  hole  under  a  tree.  He  won't  take  me  money  and  scorns 
me  and  the  establishmint.' 

"'He  must  earn  it,'  he  answers,  scowlin'  over  his  pipe. 

'"But  I'll  spind  it,'  I  insists,  peerin'  at  the  bhoy  out  of  the 
tail  of  me  eye.  'If  yer  town  weren't  dhry  I'd  have  given  it 
.to  the  saloon  man  for  the  good  of  the  family  he  hasn't  got. 
So  why  bilge  at  a  single  dollar?' 

" '  Tis  the  scout's  law,'  puts  in  me  bould  Tad.  'I  must  make 
it  honestly.'  And  he  settled  his  head  between  his  hands  and 
gazed  reproachfully  at  the  clane  floor.  So  I  saved  me  money 
and  sat  till  eight  o'clock  exchangin'  complimints  with  Misther 
Sheldon.  Thin  the  bell  rang  on  the  hill  beyond  the  station  and 
he  pulled  his  cap  off  the  dresser,  kissed  his  wife  and  the  five 
gur-rls  and  wint  out  to  his  watch  and  a  good  sleep.  Whin  he 
was  gone  I  stood  in  the  doorway  and  Missus  Sheldon  tould  me 
of  the  little  Carsons  and  how  Missus  Carson  had  sworn  niver 
to  marry  again  excipt  in  the  life-saving  service.  'She  says 
the  Governmint  took  away  her  husband  and  her  support,' 
says  the  good  lady,'  and  she'll  touch  no  money  excipt  Govern- 
mint checks,  bein'  used  to  thim  and  Uncle  Sam  owin'  her  the 
livin'  he  took  away.' 

'"With  five  childher  she  shud  look  up  and  marry  one  of  the 
men  in  the  establishmint,'  I  informs  her.  'They  are  good 
husbands  and  make  money.' 

"'Though  a  widow  she  has  pride,'  she  responds  sharply; 
and  I  left,  with  young  Tad  follerin'  at  me  heels  till  I  let  him 
overtake  me  and  whisper:  'If  ye'd  buy  some  clams  of  young 
Carson  it  wud  help  the  widow.' 

"'I  am  starved  for  clams,'  I  whispers  back  like  a  base  con- 
spirator for  the  hand  of  the  lovely  gur-rl  in  the  castle.     'Show 


256  TAD  SHELDON,  SECOND  CLASS  SCOUT 

me  the  house  of  me  bould  Carson.'  He  pointed  to  a  light 
through  the  thin  woods. 

"They  thought  I  was  crazy  whin  I  returned  to  the  hotel  with 
a  hundred  pounds  of  clams  dripping  down  me  back.  'I  dug 
thim  with  me  own  hands  this  night/  I  tould  the  man  in  the 
office.     'Cook  thim  all  for  me  breakfast.' 

"'Ye 're  a  miracle  of  strength  and  endurance  under  watther,' 
says  he;   'for  't  is  now  high  tide  and  the  surf  is  heavy.' 

"'I  found  their  tracks  in  the  road  and  followed  thim  to  their 
lair,'  I  retorts.     'Do  I  get  thim  for  breakfast?' 

"And  in  the  mor-rnin',  whin  I  was  that  full  of  clams  that  I 
needed  a  shell  instead  of  a  weskit,  I  walked  on  the  beach  with 
the  admirin'  crowds  of  summer  tourists  and  lovely  women. 
It  was  fine  weather  and  the  little  ones  were  barefooted  and  the 
old  ones  bareheaded,  and  the  wind  was  gentle,  and  the  life- 
savers  were  polishin'  their  boat  in  full  view  of  the  wondherin' 
throng;  and  I  thought  of  this  ould  tub  out  here  on  the  ind  of 
a  chain  and  pitied  yez  all.  Thin  I  sthrolled  around  the  point 
to  the  bay  and  found  me  bould  Tad  dhrillin'  his  gang  in  an  ould 
skiff,  with  home-made  oars  in  their  little  fists  and  Tad  sthandin' 
in  the  stern-sheets,  with  a  huge  steerin'  sweep  between  his 
arms  and  much  loud  language  in  his  mouth.  Whin  I  appeared 
they  looked  at  me  and  Tad  swung  his  boat  up  to  the  beach  and 
invited  me  in. 

"'We  will  show  you  a  dhrill  ye  will  remimber,'  says  he,  very 
polite.  And  with  my  steppin'  in  he  thrust  the  skiff  off  and 
the  bhoys  rowed  with  tremenjous  strength.  We  wint  along  a 
full  three  knots  an  hour,  till  he  yelled  another  ordher  and  the 
bhoys  dropped  their  oars  and  jumped  over  to  one  side;  and 
I  found  mesilf  undher  the  boat,  with  me  mouth  full  of  salt  watther 
and  ropes.  Whin  I  saw  the  sun  again  me  bould  Tad  says  to  me 
with  disapprobation:  'Ye  aren't  experienced  in  capsize 
dhrill.' 

"'In  the  establishmint  we  use  boats  to  keep  us  out  of  the 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  257 

watther,'  I  responds,  hunting  for  the  papers  out  of  me  cap. 
'The  newspapers  are  full  of  rebukes  for  thim  that  rock  boats 
to  their  own  peril.'  With  that  they  all  felt  ashamed  and  picked 
up  me  papers  and  grunted  at  each  other,  tryin'  to  blame  some- 
body else.  And  whin  I  had  me  checks  and  me  papers  all  safe 
again  I  smiled  on  thim  and  me  bould  Tad  took  heart.  '  'Tis 
not  to  tip  the  boat  over,'  says  he,  'but  to  get  it  back  on  an  even 
keel  after  a  sea's  capsized  her — that  is  the  point  of  the  dhrill.' 
And  we  pulled  ashore  to  dhry. 

"Whiles  we  were  sittin'  on  the  sand  drainin'  the  watther  out 
of  our  shoes,  a  small,  brassy  launch  came  down  the  bay,  with 
manny  men  and  women  on  her  little  decks.  Me  bould  Tad 
looked  at  her  with  half -shut  eyes  and  snorted.  'Some  day  it 
will  be  the  life-saving  crew  that  must  bring  those  ninnies  back 
to  their  homes,'  he  says.  'The  Pacific  is  nothing  to  fool  with  in 
a  gasoline  launch.  'Tis  better  to  be  safe  and  buy  your  fish.' 
And  we  watched  the  launch  chug  by  and  out  on  the  bar  and  to 
sea.  I  learned  that  she  was  the  Gladys  by  name  and  fetched 
tourists  to  the  fishing  grounds,  nine  miles  down  the  coast. 

"All  the  bhoys  were  respictful  to  me  excipt  young  Carson, 
who  recognized  in  me  bould  Mickey  the  man  who  had  asked  for 
a  hundred-weight  of  clams.  He  stared  at  me  superciliously 
and  refused  to  have  speech  with  me,  being  ashamed,  if  I  can 
judge  of  his  youthful  thoughts,  of  bein'  in  the  same  company 
with  a  fool. 

"But  I  discovered  that  the  gang  was  all  bent  on  becomin' 
what  they  called  second-class  scouts,  which  they  made  plain  to 
me  was  betther  by  one  than  a  tenderfoot.  But  they  niver 
mintioned  the  lackings  of  the  dollar,  bein'  gintlemin.  They 
wanted  to  know  of  me  whether  I  thought  that  boatmanship 
and  knowledge  of  sailing  would  be  accipted  be  the  powers 
instid  of  wisdom  as  to  bird-tracks  and  intimacy  with  wild  animals 
and  bugs.  And  the  heart  of  me  opened,  the  youth  of  me  came 
back;  and  I  spoke  to  thim  as  one  lad  to  another,  with  riferince 


258  TAD  SHELDON,  SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT 

to  me  years  in  a  steamer  and  the  need  of  hard  hands  and  a  hard 
head. 

"The  ind  of  it  was  they  rowled  across  the  sand  to  me  side  and 
we  all  lay  belly  down  over  a  chart,  which  me  bould  Tad  had 
procured  after  the  manner  of  bhoys,  and  they  explained  to  me 
how  they  knew  the  coast  for  twelve  miles  each  side  of  Yaquina 
Bay,  with  the  tides  and  currents  all  plain  in  their  heads.  And 
I  was  surprised  at  what  the  young  scuts  knew  —  God  save 
them! 

"At  noon  the  visitors  suddenly  stopped  lookin'  at  the  scenery 
and  hastened  away  with  hunger  in  their  eyes.  The  crew  ran 
the  surf -boat  back  into  the  station  and  the  bhoys  drew  their 
skiff  up  out  of  har-rm's  way;  and  I  wint  back  to  me  hotel  and 
more  clams.  On  the  steps  I  found  young  Carson,  grinnin'  like 
a  cat. 

'"Ye  don't  have  to  eat  thim  shell  fish,'  says  he,  lookin' 
away.  'Gimme  the  sack  of  thim  and  I'll  peddle  thim  to  the 
tourists  and  bring  ye  the  money.' 

"'Whisht  and  away  with  ye!'  I  commanded.  'Who  are  you 
to  be  dictatin'  the  diet  of  yer  betthers? '  And  he  fled,  without 
glancin'  behind  him. 

"There  was  some  remar-rks  passed  upon  me  wet  clothes,  but 
I  tould  the  clerk  in  the  office  that  me  duty  called  me  to  get 
drippin'  soaked  and  went  into  the  dinin'  room  with  a  stiff  neck 
under  me  proud  chin.  There  was  but  few  in  the  place  and  the 
gur-rl  who  stood  by  me  shoulder  to  pilot  me  through  the  various 
coorses  informed  me  that  the  most  of  the  guests  were  out  on  the 
Gladys  fishin'.  'And  the  most  of  thim  will  have  little  appetite 
for  their  dinners,'  she  mused  gently,  thereby  rebukin'  me  for 
a  second  helpin'  of  the  fresh  meat. 

"In  the  afternoon  I  sthrolled  out  on  the  beach  again,  but 
saw  little.  A  heavy  fog  was  rowlin'  from  the  nor'ard  and  the 
breeze  before  it  was  chill  and  damp  as  a  widow's  bed.  I  walked 
for  me  health  for  an  hour  and  then  ran  to  kape  war-rm.     At 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  259 

the  ind  of  my  spurt  I  was  amazed  to  find  mesilf  exactly  at  the 
hotel  steps.  I  wint  in  and  laid  me  down  be  the  fire  and  slept. 
I  woke  to  hear  a  woman  wailin'. 

"Whin  me  eyes  were  properly  open,  and  both  pointed  in  the 
same  direction,  I  found  mesilf  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd.  The 
sittin'  room  was  full  of  people,  all  with  misery  in  their  faces. 
The  woman  whose  cries  had  woke  me  was  standin'  be  the  windey, 
with  one  hand  around  a  handkerchief.  'My  God!'  she  was 
sayin'  —  '  My  God !  And  me  bhoy  is  on  that  boat ! '  And  I 
knew  that  it  was  throuble  and  that  many  people  would  have 
their  heads  in  their  hands  that  night,  with  aches  in  their 
throats.  I  got  up  —  shoes  in  me  hand.  At  sight  of  me  bright 
unifor-rm  men  flung  themselves  on  me.  'You  will  help  save 
them?'   they  cried  at  me. 

"'I  will  so  soon  as  I  get  me  shoes  on,'  I  remar-rked,  pushing 
them  off  me  toes.  I  put  on  me  boots  and  stood  up.  'Now 
I'll  save  thim,'  says  I.     'Where  are  they?' 

"'They're  on  the  Gladys,'  says  three  at  once.  'Thirty  of 
our  people  —  women  and  men  and  childher.' 

"'Why  wake  me? '  I  demanded  crosslike.  'Aren't  the  brave 
life-savers  even  now  sitting  be  the  fire  waitin'  for  people  to  come 
and  be  saved?  I  'm  a  chief  engineer  in  the  lighthouse  establish- 
mint  and  we  save  no  lives  excipt  whin  we  can't  help  it.  Get 
the  life-saving  crew.' 

"And  they  explained  to  me  bould  Mickey  that  the  crew  was 
gone  twenty  miles  up  the  coast  to  rescue  the  men  on  a  steam 
schooner  that  was  wrecked  off  the  Siletz,  word  of  it  having  come 
down  but  two  hours  since.  They  looked  at  me  unifor-rm  and 
demanded  their  relatives  at  me  hands.  I  shoved  thim  away 
and  wint  out  to  think.  In  the  prociss  it  occured  to  me  that  the 
Gladys  might  not  be  lost.  I  wint  back  and  asked  thim  how 
they  knew  it  was  time  to  mourn.  'If  that  launch  is  ashore 
they  are  as  close  to  the  fire  as  they  can  get,'  I  tould  thim.  'And 
if  she  has  gone  down  't  is  too  late  to  dhry  their  stockings.' 


260  TAD   SHELDON,   SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT 

'"She  is  lost  in  the  fog,'  I  was  infor-rmed.  She  shud  have 
been  back  at  her  wharf  at  four  o'clock.  '  Twas  now  turned  six 
and  the  bar  was  rough  and  blanketed  in  mist.  The  captain  of 
the  harbor  tug  has  stated,  with  wise  shakes  of  the  head,  that  the 
Gladys  cud  do  no  more  than  lay  outside  the  night  and  wait  for 
sunshine  and  a  smooth  crossing.  I  shoved  them  away  from  me 
again  and  wint  out  to  think. 

"It  was  a  mur-rky  fog,  the  sort  that  slathers  over  the  watther 
like  a  thick  oil.  Beyond  the  hill  I  cud  hear  the  surf  pounding 
like  a  riveter  in  a  boiler.  Overhead  was  a  sheet  of  gray  cloud, 
flying  in  curds  before  the  wind,  and  in  me  mouth  was  the  taste 
of  the  deep  sea,  blown  in  upon  me  with  the  scent  of  the  storm. 
Two  words  with  the  skipper  of  the  tug  tould  me  the  rest.  '  It's 
coming  on  to  blow  a  little  from  the  south 'ard,'  said  me  bould 
mariner.  'It's  so  thick  the  Gladys  can't  find  her  way  back. 
Her  passengers  will  be  cold  and  hungry  whin  they  retur-rn 
in  the  mor-rninV  , 

'"And  will  ye  not  go  after  thim? ' 

"'I  can't,'  says  he.  'Me  steamer  is  built  for  the  bay  and  one 
sea  on  the  bar  wud  destroy  the  investmint.  The  life-saving 
crew  is  up  north  after  a  wreck.' 

"'Is  there  no  seagoin'  craft  in  this  harbor? '  I  demands. 

" '  There  is  not,'  says  he.  '  Captain  Tyler  took  his  gas  schooner 
down  the  coast  yesterday.' 

"  So  I  sat  down  and  thought,  wonderin'  how  I  cud  sneak  off 
me  unifor-rm  and  have  peace.  For  I  knew  that  me  brass  but- 
tons wud  keep  me  tongue  busy  all  night  explainin'  that  I  was 
not  a  special  providence  paid  be  the  Governmint  to  save  fools 
from  purgat'ry.  In  me  thoughts  I  heard  a  wor-rd  in  me  ear. 
I  looked  up.  'Twas  me  bould  Tad,  with  the  gang  clustherin' 
at  his  heels. 

" '  Ye  have  followed  the  sea  for  many  years? '  says  he. 

"'I  have  followed  it  whin  it  was  fair  weather,'  I  responded, 
'but  the  most  of  the  time  the  sea  has  chased  me  ahead  of  it. 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  261 

Me  coattail  is  still  wet  from  the  times  it  caught  me.     Speak  up! 
What  is  it? ' 

"The  bhoy  pulled  out  of  his  jacket  his  ould  chart  and  laid 
it  before  me.  'The  Gladys  is  at  anchor  off  these  rocks,'  says  he, 
layin'  a  small  finger  on  a  spot.  'And  in  this  weather  she  will 
have  to  lie  there  as  long  as  she  can.  Whin  it  blows  she  must 
up  anchor  and  get  out  or  go  ashore  here.'  He  moved  his 
finger  a  mite  and  it  rested  on  what  meant  rocks. 
Well  ?  '  I  remar-rks. 

Me  father  and  all  the  bhoys'  fathers  are  gone  up  north  to 
rescue  the  crew  of  a  steam  schooner  that's  wrecked.  Before 
they  get  back  it  will  be  too  late.     I  thought' 

"'What  were  ye  thinkin',  ye  scut?'  says  I  fiercely. 

"He  dropped  one  foot  on  the  other  and  looked  me  between  the 
eyes.  T  was  thinkin'  we  wud  go  afther  her  and  save  her,' 
says  he,  very  bould. 

"I  cast  me  eyes  over  the  bunch  of  little  fellows  and  laughed. 
But  me  bould  Tad  didn't  wink.  'There's  people  out  there 
drownding,'  says  he.  'We've  dhrilled  and  we  know  all  the 
ropes;  but  we  can't  pull  our  skiff  across  the  bar  and  the  big 
boat  is  not  for  us,  bein'  the  keeper's  orders.  And  we  haven't 
the  weight  to  pull  it  anyhow.'  And  he  stared  me  out  of  me 
laugh. 

"'There  is  no  seagoin'  craft  in  the  harbor,'  I  says,  to  stop 
his  nonsinse. 

"'There  is  another  launch,'  he  remar-rks  casually. 

"We  looked  at  each  other  and  he  thin  says:  'Can  ye  run 
a  gasoline  engine?' 

"'I  have  had  to,'  I  infor-rms  him,  'but  I  dislike  the  smell.' 

"'The  owner  of  this  launch  is  not  here,'  says  me  young  sprig. 
'And  he  niver  tould  us  not  to  take  it.  If  you'll  run  the  engine 
we'll  be  off  and  rescue  the  folks  on  the  Gladys!1 

"Be  the  saints!  I  laughed  to  kill  mesilf,  till  the  little  brat  up 
and  remar-rks  to  the  gang:    'These  lighthouse  officers  wear  a 


262     TAD  SHELDON,  SECOND  CLASS  SCOUT 

unifor-rm  and  have  no  work-rkin'  clothes  at  all,  not  needin' 
thim  in  their  business.' 

"So  I  parleyed  with  thim  a  momint  to  save  me  face.  'And 
how  will  ye  save  thim  that's  dyin'  in  deep  watthers? ' 

"'By  to-morrow  nobody  can  cross  the  bar,'  I'm  infor-rmed. 
'And  the  skipper  of  the  Gladys  don't  know  this  coast.  We'll 
just  pick  him  up  and  pilot  him  in.' 

But  the  bar! '  I  protests.     '  It's  too  rough  to  cross  a  launch 
inward  bound,  even  if  ye  can  get  out.' 

"'I  know  the  soft  places,'  says  the  little  sprig  of  a  bhoy, 
very  proudly.     '  Come  on.' 

"'And  if  I  don't  come? '  I  inquired. 

"He  leaned  over  and  touched  the  brass  buttons  on  me  jacket. 
'Ye  have  sworn  to  do  your  best,'  says  he.  'I've  not  had  a  chance 
to  take  me  oath  yet  as  a  second-class  scout,  but  between  our- 
selves we  have  done  so.     I  appeal  to  yez  as  one  man  to  another.' 

"I  got  up.  'I've  niver  expicted  to  serve  undher  so  small  a 
captain,'  I  remark-rks,  'but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
Where  is  that  gasoline  engine? ' 

"We  stepped  proudly  off  in  the  dusk,  me  bould  Tad  houldin' 
himsilf  very  straight  beside  me  and  the  gang  marchin'  at  our 
heels  shouldher  to  shouldher.  Prisintly  we  came  to  a  wharf 
and  ridin'  to  the  float  below  it  was  a  big  white  launch,  cabined 
and  decked.  Tad  jumped  down  and  the  gang  followed.  Thin 
I  lowered  mesilf  down  with  dignity  and  intered  the  miserable 
engine  room. 

"I  have  run  every  sort  of  engine  and  machine  made  by 
experts  and  other  ignoramuses.  I  balk  at  nothing.  The 
engine  was  new  to  me,  but  I  lit  a  lantern  and  examined  its  in- 
wards with  anxiety  and  superciliousness.  Prisintly,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  it  started  off.  A  very  small  bhoy  held  the  lantern  for 
me  while  I  adjusted  the  valves  and  the  carbureter,  and  this 
bould  lad  infor-rmed  me  with  pride  that  the 'leader'  had  assigned 
him  to  me  as  my  engine-room  crew.     And  whin  the  machine 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  263 

was  revolvin'  with  some  speed  that  individual  thrust  his  head 
in  at  the  door  to  ask  me  if  I  was  ready.  'If  ye  are,'  says  that 
limb  of  wickedness,  'we  will  start,  chief.' 

'"Ye  may  start  any  time,'  I  says,  with  great  respict.  'But 
whin  we'll  stop  is  another  matther.' 

'"Ye  must  keep  her  goin'  whiles  we  cross  the  bar,'  he  infor-rms 
me,  with  a  straight  look. 

"The  little  gong  rang  and  I  threw  in  the  clutch  and  felt  the 
launch  slide  away.  The  jingle  came  and  I  opened  her  up. 
'Twas  a  powerful  machine  and  whin  I  felt  the  jerk  and  pull  of 
her  four  cylinders  I  sint  me  assistant  to  find  the  gasoline  tank 
and  see  whether  we  had  oil  enough.  Thinks  I,  if  this  machine 
eats  up  fuel  like  this  we  must  e'en  have  enough  and  aplenty. 
The  bhoy  came  back  with  smut  on  his  nose  and  shtated  that 
the  tank  was  full. 

'"How  do  ye  know?'  I  demanded. 

"'I've  helped  the  owner  fill  her  up  several  times,'  says  the 
brat.  'The  leader  insists  that  we  know  the  insides  of  every 
boat  on  the  bay.  'Tis  part  of  our  practice  and  whin  we  get  to 
be  scouts  we  will  all  learn  to  run  gasoline  engines.' 

"So  we  went  along  and  the  engines  war-rmed  up;  and  I 
trimmed  the  lantern  and  sat  me  down  comfortable  as  a  cat  on 
a  pan  of  dough.  Thin  there  was  a  horrible  rumpus  on  deck 
and  some  watther  splashed  down  the  back  of  me  neck.  '  'Tis 
the  bar,'  says  me  proud  engine-room  crew,  balancin'  himsilf  on 
the  plates. 

"'They  are  shovin'  dhrinks  across  it  too  fast  for  me,'  I  re- 
torts, as  more  watther  simmers  down. 

"'Oh,  the  leader  knows  all  the  soft  places,'  returns  proudly 
this  bould  sprig.  And  with  a  whoop  we  drove  through  a  big 
felley  that  almost  swamped  us.  Thin,  so  far  as  I  cud  judge, 
the  worst  was  over. 

"Prisintly  we  got  into  the  trough  of  the  sea  and  rowled  along 
for  an  hour  more.    Then  the  jingle  tinkled  and  I  slowed  down. 


264  TAD   SHELDON,   SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT 

Me  bould  Tad  stuck  his  head  in  at  the  little  door.  'The  Gladys 
is  right  in-shore  from  us,'  he  remark-rks,  careless-like.  'We 
will  signal  her  to  up  anchor  and  come  with  us.'  He  took  me 
lantern  and  vanished. 

"Whin  I  had  waited  long  enough  for  all  the  oil  to  have  burned 
out  of  three  lanterns  I  turned  the  engines  over  to  me  crew 
and  stepped  out  on  deck.  It  was  a  weepin'  fog,  with  more 
rowlin'  in  all  the  time,  and  the  feel  on  me  cheek  was  like  that  of 
,a  stor-rm.  I  saw  me  bould  Tad  on  the  little  for'a'd  deck, 
swingin'  his  little  lamp. 

'"What's  the  matther  with  that  scut  of  a  skipper? '  I  inquires. 

"The  bhoy  was  fair  cryin'  with  rage  and  shame.  'He  can't 
understand  the  signal,'  says  he;  '  and  'tis  dangerous  to  run  closer 
to  him  in  this  sea.' 

"'If  he  don't  understand  yer  signals,'  says  I,  "Tis  useless  to 
talk  more  to  him  with  yer  ar-rms.     Use  yer  tongue.' 

"And  at  that  he  raised  a  squeal  that  cud  maybe  be  heard  a 
hundred  feet,  the  voice  of  him  bein'  but  a  bhoy's  without  noise 
and  power.  *  'Let  be,'  says  I.  'I've  talked  me  mind  across  the 
deep  watthers  many  times.'  And  I  filled  me  lungs  and  let  out 
a  blast  that  fetched  everybody  on  deck  on  the  other  launch. 
Thin  I  tould  that  skipper,  with  rage  in  me  throat,  that  he 
must  up  anchor  and  folley  us  or  be  drownded  with  all  his 
passengers  dragging  on  his  coattails  through  purgat'ry.  And 
he  listened,  and  prisintly  we  saw  the  Gladys  creep  through 
the  darkness  and  fog  up  till  us.  Whin  she  crossed  our  stern 
me  bould  Tad  tould  me  to  command  her  to  folley  us  into 
port. 

"Ravin's  and  ragin's  were  nothin'  to  the  language  we  traded 
across  that  watther  for  the  five  minutes  necessary  to  knock 
loose  the  wits  of  that  heathen  mariner.  In  the  end  he  saw 
the  light,  and  the  passengers  that  crowded  his  sloppy  decks 
waved  their  arms  and  yelled  with  delight.  Me  bould  Tad 
went  into  the  little  pilot-house  and  slammed  the  door.     He 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  265 

spoke  to  me  sharply:  "Twill  blow  a  gale  before  midnight.' 
He  rang  the  bell  for  full  speed  ahead. 

"An  hour  later  I  was  signaled  to  stop  me  machines.  I 
dropped  the  clutch  and  sint  me  assistant  for  news.  He  came 
back  with  big  eyes.  '  The  leader  says  the  other  launch  can't 
make  it  across  the  bar,'  he  reports. 

"'Well?' I  says. 

"'We're  goin'  to  take  off  her  passengers  and  cross  it  our- 
silves,'  says  the  brat.     With  that  he  vanishes.     I  followed  him. 

"We  were  stopped  right  in  the  fog,  with  roily  waves  towerin' 
past  us  and  the  dull  noise  of  the  bar  ahead  of  us.  The  Gladys 
was  right  astern  of  us  and  even  in  the  darkness  I  cud  catch  a 
glimpse  of  white  faces  and  hear  little  screams  of  women.  I 
went  to  leeward  and  there  found  me  bould  Tad  launchin'  the 
little  dingey  that  was  stowed  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin.  Whin 
it  was  overside  four  of  me  bould  gang  drops  into  it  and  pulls 
away  for  the  other  launch.  '  They'll  be  swamped  and  drownded,' 
I  remar-rks. 

"'They  will  not,'  says  Tad.  'I  trained  thim  mesilf.  'Tis 
child's  play.' 

"'Childher  play  with  queer  toys  in  this  counthry,'  I  con- 
tinues to  mesilf;  and  I  had  a  pain  in  me  pit  to  see  thim  careerin' 
on  the  big  waves  that  looked  nigh  to  breakin'  any  minute. 
But  they  came  back  with  three  women  and  a  baby,  with  nothin' 
to  say  excipt:    'There's  thirty-one  of  thim,  leader!' 

"'Leave  the  min,'  says  he,  real  sharp.  'Tell  the  captain 
we'll  come  back  for  thim  after  we've  landed  the  women  safe.' 

"  I  tucked  the  women  down  in  the  af  ther  cabin,  snug  and  warm, 
and  wint  back  on  deck.  The  boat  was  away  again,  swingin' 
over  the  seas  as  easy  as  a  bird.  'That's  good  boatmanship,' 
I  remar-rks. 

"'It's  young  Carson  in  command,'  says  me  bould  bhoy 
leader. 

"'Twas  fifteen  minutes  before  the  boat  came  back  and  thin 


266  TAD   SHELDON,  SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT 

there  was  a  man  in  it,  with  two  women.  Whin  it  swung  along- 
side Tad  helped  out  the  ladies  and  thin  pushed  at  the  man  with 
his  foot.  'Back  ye  go!'  he  says.  'No  room  on  this  craft  for 
min.' 

"'But  you're  only  a  lot  of  bhoys!'  says  the  man  in  a  rage. 
'Who  are  you  to  give  orders?    I  '11  come  aboard.' 

"'Ye  will  not,'  says  me  bould  Tad,  and  I  reached  into  the 
engine  room  for  a  spanner  whereby  to  back  him  up,  for  I  ad- 
mired the  spunk  of  the  young  sprig.  But  the  man  stared  into 
the  lad's  face  and  said  nothin'.  And  the  boat  pulled  away  with 
him  still  starin'  over  his  shouldher. 

"The  nixt  boatload  was  all  the  rest  of  the  womenfolks  and 
childher  and  Tad  ordered  the  dingey  swung  in  and  secured. 
Thin  he  tur-rned  to  me.     'We  will  go  in.' 

"'Which  way?'  I  demands. 

"He  put  his  little  hand  to  his  ear.  'Hear  it? '  he  asks  calmly. 
I  listened  and  by  the  great  Hivins  there  was  a  whistlin'  buoy 
off  in  the  darkness.     I  wint  down  to  me  machines. 

"I've  run  me  engines  many  a  long  night  whin  the  divil  was 
bruising  his  knuckles  agin  the  plates  beneath  me.  But  the 
nixt  hour  made  me  tin  years  ouldher.  For  we  hadn't  more'n 
got  well  started  in  before  it  was  'Stop  her!'  and  'Full  speed 
ahead!'  and  'Ease  her!'  Me  assistant  was  excited,  but  kept 
on  spillin'  oil  into  the  cups  and  feelin'  the  bearin's  like  an  ould 
hand.  Once,  whin  a  sea  walloped  over  our  little  craft,  he  grinned 
across  at  me.     'There  ain't  many  soft  places  to-night! '  says  he. 

"'Ye're  a  child  of  the  Ould  Nick,'  says  I,  'and  eat  fire  out  of 
an  asbestos  spoon.  Ye  wud  be  runnin'  hell  within  an  hour  afther 
ye  left  yer  little  corpse!' 

"'  'Tis  the  scout's  law  not  to  be  afraid,'  retor-rts  me  young 
demon.  But  me  attintion  was  distracted  be  a  tremenjous 
scamperin'  over  head.  'For  the  love  of  mercy,  what  is  that?' 
I  yelled. 

"'  'Tis  the  leader  puttin'  out  the  drag,'  says  me  crew.     'Whin 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  267 

the  breakers  are  high  it's  safer  to  ride  in  with  a  drag  over  the 
stern.  It  keeps  the  boat  from  broachin'  to.'  And  to  the  dot 
of  his  last  word  I  felt  the  sudden  strong  pull  of  something  on  the 
launch's  tail.  Thin  something  lifted  us  up  and  laid  us  down  with 
a  slap  like  a  pan  of  dough  on  a  mouldin'  board.  Me  machines 
coughed  and  raced  and  thin  almost  stopped.  Whin  they  were 
goin'  again  I  saw  me  assistant  houldin'  to  a  stanchion.  His 
face  was  pasty  white  and  he  gulped.  'Are  ye  scared  at  last?' 
I  demanded  of  him. 

"'I'm  seasick,'  he  chokes  back.  And  he  was,  be  Hivins! 
So  we  joggled  and  hobbled  about  and  I  wondered  how  many 
times  we  had  crossed  the  bar  from  ind  to  ind,  whin  suddenly 
it  smoothed  down  and  I  saw  a  red  light  through  the  little  windey. 
Me  assistant  saw  it  too,  'That's  the  range  light,  off  the  jetty,' 
says  he.     'We're  inside.' 

"I  shoved  open  the  door  to  the  deck  and  looked  out.  The 
fog  lay  about  us  thick  and  the  wind  was  risin';  I  cud  barely 
make  out  the  lights  ahead.  I  stuck  me  head  out  and  glanced 
astern.  'Way  back  of  us,  like  a  match  behind  a  curtain,  I 
saw  a  little  light  bobbing  up  and  down  in  the  fog.  I  took  me 
crew  be  the  ear  and  thrust  his  head  out  beside  mine.  'What 
is  that?'  I  demanded. 

" ' '  Tis  the  other  launch,'  he  says.  '  I  guess  they  followed  us  in.' 

"We  ran  up  to  the  wharf  and  the  gang  made  everything  fast; 
and  then  me  bouldTad  comes  to  me  with  a  sheepish  face.  '  Wud 
ye  mind  tellin'  the  ladies  and  childher  that  they  can  go  ashore 
and  get  to  the  hotel? '  he  says. 

"So  it  was  me  that  wint  in  and  tould  the  ladies  they  were 
saved  and  helped  thim  to  the  wharf  and  saw  thim  started  for 
the  hotel.  Thin  I  came  back  to  the  launch,  but  there  was  no- 
body there.  Me  bould  gang  had  disappeared.  Just  thin  the 
other  launch  came  up,  limpin'  on  one  leg,  covered  with  drippin' 
men  and  blasphemy.  They  didn't  wait  for  the  lines  to  be  put 
out,  but  jumped  for  the  hotel.     Whiles  I  was  watchin'  thim  the 


268  TAD   SHELDON,  SECOND   CLASS  SCOUT 

skipper  of  the  Gladys  pulls  himsilf  out  of  his  wrecked  pilot- 
house and  approaches  me  with  heavy  footfalls.  'I'm  tould 
that  'twas  bhoys  that  manned  this  launch,'  he  remar-rks. 
'If  it  is  so  I  wudn't  have  come  in  and  nearly  lost  me  ship.' 

'"If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  bhoys  ye'd  now  be  driftin'  into  the 
breakers  off  yer  favorite  fishin'  spot,'  I  retor-rts.  'I've  seen 
many  a  man  who'd  found  the  door  of  hell  locked  against  him 
swear  because  he  hadn't  the  key  in  his  pocket.  Nixt  time  ye 
try  suicide  leave  the  women  and  childher  ashore.'  And  with 
the  words  out  of  me  mouth  the  gale  broke  upon  us  like  the  blow 
of  a  fist. 

"We  took  shelter  behind  a  warehouse  and  the  skipper  of  the 
Gladys  said  in  me  ear:  'I  suppose  the  owner  of  the  launch  had 
to  get  what  crew  he  cud.     Where  is  he?     I  'd  like  to  thank  him.' 

"'If  ye  will  come  with  me  to  the  hotel  ye  shall  see  the  man  ye 
owe  yer  life  to,'  I  infor-rmed  him. 

"As  we  intered  the  hotel  a  tall  man,  with  the  mar-rk  of  aut'or- 
ity  on  him,  observed  me  unifor-rm  and  addressed  me:  '  What  do 
you  know  about  this?' 

"Aut'ority  is  always  aut'ority,  and  I  tould  him  what  I  knew 
and  had  seen,  not  forbearin'  to  mintion  the  gang  and  their  wild 
ambitions.  And  whin  I  had  finished  this  man  said:  'I  shall 
muster  thim  in  to-morrow.  I  happen  to  be  in  command  of  the 
scouts  in  this  district.' 

"'But  they  haven't  their  dollars  to  put  in  the  little  bank/ 
I  remar-rked.  'And  they  tell  me  without  their  dollars  they 
cannot  be  second-class  scouts,  whativer  that  is.' 

"At  this  a  fat  man  reached  for  a  hat  off  the  hook  and  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket,  drew  it  out  and  emptied  it  into  the  hat, 
and  passed  it. 

"And  while  the  money  jingled  into  it  my  respict  for  the  brave 
lads  rose  into  me  mouth.  ' They  won't  take  it,'  I  said.  'They 
have  refused  money  before.     'Tis  their  oath.' 

"The  man  with  aut'ority  looked  over  at  me.     'The  chief 


JOHN  FLEMING  WILSON  269 

is  right,'  he  said.  'They  have  earned  only  a  dollar  apiece. 
Whose  launch  was  that  they  took?' 

" '  Faith  and  I  don't  know,'  I  said.  'They  remar-rked  that  the 
owner — Hivin  bless  him! —  had  niver  forbidden  thim  to  use  it.' 

'"Thin  we  must  pay  the  rint  of  it  for  the  night,'  says  he. 
'But  the  bhoys  will  get  only  a  dollar  a  piece.    Where  are  they?' 

"'They  disappeared  whin  the  boat  was  fast,  sir,'  says  I. 
'I  think  they  wint  home.     'Tis  bedtime.' 

"'D'ye  know  where  the  pathrol-leader  lives?'  he  demands. 

"So  we  walked  up  the  hill  in  the  darkness  and  wind  till  we 
reached  the  house  of  me  bould  Tad.  A  knock  at  the  door 
brought  out  the  missus,  with  a  towel  on  her  ar-rm.  I  pushed  in. 
'We've  come  to  see  yer  son,'  says  I. 

"We  stepped  in  and  saw  the  young  sprig  be  the  fire  on  a 
chair,  with  his  feet  in  a  bowl  of  watther  and  musthard.  He  was 
for  runnin'  whin  he  saw  us,  but  didn't  for  the  lack  of  clothes. 
So  he  scowled  at  us.  'This  is  the  commander  of  the  scouts,' 
I  says,  inthroducin'  me  tall  companion.  'And  her's  yer  five 
dollars  to  put  with  yer  dollar  and  six  bits  into  the  little  bank, 
so's  yez  can  all  of  yez  be  second-class  scouts.' 

"'We  can't  take  the  money,'  says  he,  with  a  terrible  growl. 
'The  oath  forbids  us  to  take  money  for  savin'  life.' 

"'Don't  be  a  hero,'  I  rebukes  him.  'Ye 're  only  a  small 
bhoy  in  his  undherclothes  with  yer  feet  in  hot  watther  and 
musthard.  No  hero  was  iver  in  such  a  predicament.  This 
gintleman  will  infor-rm  ye  about  the  money.' 

"Me  bould  companion  looked  at  the  slip  of  a  lad  and  said 
sharply:  'Report  to  me  to-morrow  morning  with  yer  pathrol 
at  sivin  o'clock  to  be  musthered  in.' 

"With  that  we  mar-rched  out  into  the  stor-rm  and  back  to 
the  hotel,  where  I  wint  to  slape  like  a  bhoy  mesilf  —  that  was 
sixty-four  me  last  birthday  and  niver  thought  to  make  a  fool 
of  mesilf  with  a  gang  of  bhoys  and  a  gasoline  engine  —  and  that 
on  a  holiday!" 


XXI.  THE  GLENMORE  FIRE  » 
Robert  Herrick 

[jHart,  the  principal  figure  of  The  Common  Lot,  is  an  architect  who  very 
early  in  his  career  finds  himself  in  the  power  of  an  unscrupulous  contractor 
and  builder,  Graves.  The  two  men  work  together,  the  architect  winking  at  the 
builder's  habit  of  skimping  the  specifications  —  using  I-beams,  for  instance,  of 
much  smaller  size  than  those  called  for  in  the  contracts,  and,  in  general,  missing 
no  chance  for  graft.  They  build  The  Glenmore  as  a  fireproof  hotel.  The  steel 
construction  is  so  skimped  that  the  hotel  is  in  reality  a  death-trap.  The  present 
selection,  nominally  a  description  of  a  big  fire,  is  in  reality  an  account  of  Hart's 
conscience.  Hart  has  been  going  to  the  dogs  in  more  ways  than  one.  On  the 
afternoon  of  the  fire  he  is  walking  the  streets  at  random  in  great  discouragement 
of  soul,  wondering  at  his  degeneration.  The  fire,  in  the  end,  proves  to  be  the 
starting  point  of  his  regeneration. ~\ 

He  must  have  walked  many  blocks  on  this  avenue  between 
the  monotonous  small  houses.  In  the  distance  beyond  him, 
to  the  south,  he  saw  a  fiery  glow  on  the  soft  heavens,  which 
he  took  to  be  the  nightly  reflection  from  the  great  blast  furnaces 
of  the  steel  works  in  South  Chicago.  Presently  as  he  emerged 
upon  a  populous  cross  street,  the  light  seemed  suddenly  much 
nearer,  and,  unlike  the  soft  effulgence  from  the  blast  furnaces, 
the  red  sky  was  streaked  with  black.  On  the  corners  of  the 
street  there  was  an  unwonted  excitement,  —  men  gaping 
upward  at  the  fiery  cloud,  then  running  eastward,  in  the  direction 
of  the  lake.  From  the  west  there  sounded  the  harsh  gong  of  a 
fire-engine,  which  was  pounding  rapidly  down  the  car  tracks. 
It  came,  rocking  in  a  whirlwind  of  galloping  horses  and  swaying 
men.  The  crowd  on  the  street  broke  into  a  run,  streaming  along 
the  sidewalks  in  the  wake  of  the  engine. 

The  architect  woke  from  his  dead  thoughts  and  ran  with  the 
crowd.  Two,  three,  four  blocks,  they  sped  toward  the  lake, 
which  curves  eastward  at  this  point,  and  as  he  ran  the  street 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Common  Lot  with  the  kind  permission  of  The  Macmillan 
Company  and  of  the  author. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  271 

became  strangely  familiar  to  him.  The  crowd  turned  south 
along  a  broad  avenue  that  led  to  the  park.  Some  one  cried: 
"There  it  is!  It's  the  hotel!"  A  moment  more,  and  the  archi- 
tect found  himself  at  the  corner  of  the  park  opposite  the  lofty 
building,  out  of  whose  upper  stories  broad  billows  of  smoke, 
broken  by  tongues  of  flame,  were  pouring. 

There,  in  the  corner  made  by  the  boulevard  and  the  park, 
where  formerly  was  the  weedy  ruin,  rose  the  great  building, 
which  Graves  had  finished  late  in  the  winter,  and  had  turned 
over  to  the  hotel  company.  Its  eight  stories  towered  loftily 
above  the  other  houses  and  apartment  buildings  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. The  countless  windows  along  the  broad  front  gleamed 
portentously  with  the  reflection  from  the  flames  above.  At 
the  west  corner,  overlooking  the  park,  above  a  steep  ascent  of 
jutting  bay  windows,  there  floated  a  light  blue  pennon,  bearing 
a  name  in  black  letters  —  The  Glenmore. 

At  first  the  architect  scarcely  realized  that  this  building 
which  was  burning  was  Graves's  hotel,  his  hotel.  The  excite- 
ment of  the  scene  stupefied  him.  Already  the  police  had 
roped  off  the  streets  beneath  the  fire,  in  which  the  crowd  was 
thickening  rapidly.  From  many  points  in  the  adjoining  blocks 
came  the  shrill  whistles  of  the  throbbing  engines,  answering 
one  another.  The  fire  burned  quietly  aloft  in  the  sky,  while 
below  there  rose  the  clamor  of  excited  men  and  screeching 
engines.  The  crowd  grew  denser  every  moment,  and  surged 
again  and  again  nearer  the  building,  packing  solidly  about  the 
fire  lines.     Hart  was  borne  along  in  the  current. 

"They've  pulled  the  third  alarm,"  one  man  said  in  his  ear, 
chewing  excitedly  on  a  piece  of  gum.  "There's  more'n  fifty 
in  there  yet!" 

"They  say  the  elevators  are  going  still !"  another  one  exclaimed. 

"Where's  the  fire-escapes?" 

"Must  be  on  the  rear  or  over  by  the  alley.  There  ain't 
none  this  side,  sure  enough." 


272  THE  GLENMORE  FIRE 

"Yes,  they're  in  back,"  the  architect  said  authoritatively. 

He  tried  to  think  just  where  they  were  and  where  they  opened 
in  the  building,  but  could  not  remember.  A  voice  wailed  dis- 
mally through  a  megaphone:  — 

"Look  out,  boys!   Back!" 

On  the  edge  of  the  cornice  appeared  three  little  figures  with 
a  line  of  hose.  At  that  height  they  looked  like  willing  gnomes 
on  the  crust  of  a  flaming  world. 

"Gee!  Look  at  that  roof!  Look  at  it!" 

The  cry  from  the  megaphone  had  come  too  late.  Suddenly, 
without  warning,  the  top  of  the  hotel  rose  straight  into  the 
air,  and  from  the  sky  above  there  sounded  a  great  report,  like 
the  detonation  of  a  cannon  at  close  range.  The  roof  had  blown 
up.  For  an  instant  darkness  followed,  as  if  the  flame  had  been 
smothered,  snuffed  out.  Then  with  a  mighty  roar  the  pent-up 
gases  that  had  caused  the  explosion  ignited  and  burst  forth  in 
a  broad  sheet  of  beautiful  blue  flame,  covering  the  doomed 
building  with  a  crown  of  fire. 

Hart  looked  for  the  men  with  the  hose.  One  had  caught 
on  the  sloping  roof  of  a  line  of  bay  windows,  and  clung  there 
desperately  seven  stories  above  the  ground. 

"He's  a  goner!"  some  one  near  him  groaned. 

Large  strips  of  burning  tar  paper  began  to  float  above  the 
heads  of  the  crowd,  causing  a  stampede.  In  the  rush,  Hart 
got  nearer  the  fire  lines,  more  immediately  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
which  irresistibly  drew  him  closer.  Now  he  could  hear  the 
roar  of  the  flame  as  it  swept  through  the  upper  stories  and 
streamed  out  into  the  dark  night.  The  fierce  light  illumined 
the  silk  streamer,  which  still  waved  from  the  pole  at  the  corner 
of  the  building,  untouched  by  the  explosion.  Across  the  east 
wall,  under  the  cornice,  was  painted  the  sign:  The  Glenmore 
Family  Hotel;  and  beneath,  in  letters  of  boastful  size, 
Fireproof  Building.  Tongues  of  flame  danced  over  the 
words. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  273 

The  policeman  at  the  line  pointed  derisively  to  the  legend 
with  his  billy. 

"Now  ain't  that  fireproof!" 

"Burns  like  rotten  timber!"  a  man  answered. 

It  was  going  frightfully  fast!  The  flames  were  now  galloping 
through  the  upper  stories,  sweeping  the  lofty  structure  from  end  to 
end,  and  smoke  had  begun  to  pour  from  many  points  in  the  lower 
stories,  showing  that  the  fount  of  flame  had  its  roots  far  down 
in  the  heart  of  the  building.  Vague  reports  circulated  through 
the  crowd:  A  hundred  people  or  more  were  still  in  the  hotel. 
All  were  out.  Thirty  were  penned  in  the  rear  rooms  of  the  sixth 
floor.  One  elevator  was  still  running.  It  had  been  caught 
at  the  time  of  the  explosion,  etc.  .  .  .  For  the  moment  the 
firemen  were  making  their  fight  in  the  rear,  and  the  north 
front  was  left  in  a  splendid  peace  of  silent  flame  and  smoke  —  a 
spectacle  for  the  crowd  in  the  street. 

Within  the  lofty  structure,  the  architect  realized  vaguely, 
there  was  being  enacted  one  of  those  modern  tragedies  which 
mock  the  pride  and  vanity  of  man.  In  that  furnace  human 
beings  were  fighting  for  their  lives,  or  penned  in,  cut  off  by  the 
swift  flames,  were  waiting  in  delirious  fear  for  aid  that  was  be- 
yond the  power  of  men  to  give  them.  A  terrible  horror  clutched 
him.  It  was  his  building  which  was  being  eaten  up  like  grass 
before  the  flame.  He  dodged  beneath  the  fire  line  and  began 
to  run  toward  the  east  end,  driven  by  a  wild  impulse  that  he 
could  not  control.  He  must  do  something,  —  must  help! 
It  was  his  building;  he  knew  it  from  cornice  to  foundation; 
he  might  know  how  to  get  at  those  within!  A  policeman 
seized  him  roughly  and  thrust  him  back  behind  the  line.  He 
fought  his  way  to  the  front  again,  while  the  dense  crowd  elbowed 
and  cursed  him.  He  lost  his  hat;  his  coat  was  half  torn  from 
his  shoulders.     But  he  struggled  frantically  forward. 

"You  here,  Hart!    What  are  you  after?" 

Some  one  stretched  out  a  detaining  hand  and  drew  him  out 


274  THE  GLENMORE  FIRE 

of  the  press.  It  was  Cook,  his  draughtsman.  Cook  was 
chewing  gum,  his  jaws  working  nervously,  grinding  and  biting 
viciously  in  his  excitement.  The  fierce  glare  revealed  the  deep 
lines  of  the  man's  face. 

"You  can't  get  out  that  way.  The  street's  packed  solid!" 
Cook  bellowed  into  his  ear.  "God  alive,  how  fast  it's  going! 
That's  your  steel  frame,  tile  partition,  fireproof  construction, 
is  it?    To  hell  with  it!" 

Suddenly  he  clutched  the  architect's  arm  again  and  shouted: — 

"Where  are  the  east-side  fire-escapes?  I  can't  see  nothing 
up  that  wall,  can  you?" 

The  architect  peered  through  the  wreath  of  smoke.  There 
should  have  been  an  iron  ladder  between  every  two  tiers  of  bay 
windows  on  this  side  of  the  building. 

"They  are  all  in  back,"  he  answered,  remembering  now  that 
the  contractor  had  cut  out  those  on  the  east  wall  as  a  "dis- 
figurement." 

"Let's  get  around  to  the  rear,"  he  shouted  to  the  draughts- 
man, his  anxiety  whipping  him  once  more. 

After  a  time  they  managed  to  reach  an  alley  at  the  southwest 
angle  of  the  hotel,  where  two  engines  were  pumping  from  a 
hydrant.  Here  they  could  see  the  reach  of  the  south  wall, 
up  which  stretched  the  spidery  lines  of  a  single  fire-escape. 
Cook  pointed  to  it  in  mute  wonder  and  disgust. 

"It's  just  a  question  if  the  beams  will  hold  into  the  walls 
until  they  can  get  all  the  folks  out,"  he  shouted.  "I  heard 
that  one  elevator  boy  was  still  running  his  machine  and  taking 
'em  down.  As  long  as  the  floors  hold  together,  he  can  run 
his  elevator.  But  don't  talk  to  me  about  your  fireproof  hotels! 
Why,  the  bloody  thing  ain't  been  burning  twenty  minutes, 
and  look  at  it!" 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  shrill  whistle  from  the  fire  marshal, 
and  then  a  wrenching,  crashing,  plunging  noise,  like  the  sound 
of  an  avalanche.    The  upper  part  of  the  east  wall  had  gone, 


ROBERT  HERRICK  275 

toppling  outward  into  the  alley  like  the  side  of  a  fragile  box. 
In  another  moment  followed  a  lesser  crash.  The  upper  floors 
had  collapsed,  slipping  down  into  the  inner  gulf  of  the  building. 
There  was  a  time  of  silence  and  awful  quiet;  -but  almost  imme- 
diately the  blue  flames,  shot  with  orange,  leaped  upward  once 
more.  From  the  precipitous  wall  above,  along  the  line  of  the 
fire-escape,  came  horrid  human  cries,  and  in  the  blinding  smoke 
and  flame  appeared  a  dozen  figures  clinging  here  and  there  to 
the  window  frames  like  insects,  as  if  the  heat  had  driven  them 
outward. 

Cook  swayed  against  the  architect  like  a  man  with  nausea. 

"They're  done  for  now,  sure,  all  that  ain't  out.  And  I  guess 
there  ain't  many  out.  It  just  slumped,  just  slumped,"  he 
repeated  with  a  nervous  quiver  of  the  mouth.  Suddenly 
he  turned  his  pale  face  to  the  architect  and  glared  into  his  eyes. 

"Damn  you,  you !    Damn  you  —  you  —  "  he 

stammered,  shaking  his  fist  at  him.  "There  wasn't  any  steel 
in  the  bloody  box!  It  was  rotten  cheese.  That's  you,  you, 
you! "  He  turned  and  ran  toward  the  burning  mass,  distracted, 
shouting  as  he  ran:    "Rotten  cheese!     Just  rotten  cheese!" 

But  the  architect  still  stood  there  in  the  alley,  rooted  in 
horror,  stupefied.  High  above  him,  in  a  window  of  the  south 
wall,  which  was  still  untouched  by  the  fire,  he  saw  a  woman 
crouching  on  the  narrow  ledge  of  the  brick  sill.  She  clung 
with  one  hand  to  an  awning  rope  and  put  the  other  before  her 
eyes.  He  shouted  something  to  her,  but  he  could  not  hear  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.  She  swayed  back  and  forth,  and  then 
as  a  swirl  of  flame  shot  up  in  the  room  behind  her,  she  fell  for- 
ward into  the  abyss  of  the  night.  ...  A  boy's  face  appeared 
at  one  of  the  lower  windows.  He  was  trying  to  break  the  pane 
of  heavy  glass.  Finally  he  smashed  a  hole  with  his  fist  and  stood 
there,  dazed,  staring  down  into  the  alley;  then  he  dropped  back- 
ward into  the  room,  and  a  jet  of  smoke  poured  from  the  vent  he 
had  made. 


276  THE  GLENMORE  FIRE 

In  front  of  the  hotel  there  were  fresh  shouts;  they  were  using 
the  nets,  now.  The  architect  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  moaning  to  himself  began  to  run,  to  flee  from  the  horrible 
spot.  But  a  cry  arrested  him,  a  wail  of  multitudinous  voices, 
which  rose  above  the  throb  of  the  engines,  the  crackle  of  the 
fire,  all  the  tumult  of  the  catastrophe.  He  looked  up  once  more 
to  the  fire-eaten  ruin.  The  lofty  south  wall,  hitherto  intact, 
had  begun  to  waver  along  the  east  edge.  It  tottered,  hung,  then 
slid  backward,  shaking  off  the  figures  on  the  fire-escape  as  if 
they  had  been  frozen  flies.  .  .  .  He  put  his  hands  to  his  eyes 
and  ran. 


PART    IV 
HOW  TO  DESCRIBE   CHARACTER 


PART    IV 

INTRODUCTION 
HOW  TO  DESCRIBE   CHARACTER 

In  a  world  of  men,  men  are  our  chief  study. 

Ability  to  understand  the  significance  for  strength  or  weak- 
ness of  acts,  emotions,  manners,  opinions,  humors,  and  all 
marks  of  character  is  a  broad  object  of  education.  Seeing  life 
—  the  topic  of  this  book  —  never  means  much  else  than  knowing 
men.  One  does  not  need  to  be  a  psychologist  or  a  novelist  to 
have  skill  at  this  business.  We  may  go  about  it  as  amateurs 
or  as  professionals,  but  of  necessity  we  must  all  gain  some  skill 
in  it.  For  again  and  again  our  ability  to  know  men  affects 
our  careers  and  our  happiness.  We  ourselves  are  judged  by 
this  ability.  To  fail  to  understand  people  —  that  is  the  social 
sin.  To  know  a  good  man  when  you  see  him'  —  that  is 
social  service. 

This  problem  of  knowing  a  man  well,  except  the  knowledge 
result  from  mere  habit,  is  not  simple.  And  the  problem  of 
imagining  a  man  intimately  on  paper,  so  that  he  appears  there 
as  a  concrete  instance  of  human  nature,  and  not  just  as  a  "  type" 
with  a  gesture  or  two,  is  far  from  being  simple.  But  the  differ- 
ence between  this  technical  ability  to  make  a  character  live  on 
paper  and  the  aptitude  for  knowing  men  in  life  is  not  so  great 
'as  at  first  thought  appears.  Indeed,  we  are  inclined  to  regard  it 
as  very  largely  a  technical  or  nominal  difference.  The  funda- 
mental and  the  hard  thing  is  to  know  men  well  in  life.  That  is 
just  as  rare  as  leadership,  which  it  goes  so  far  to  constitute. 
Is  it  not  a  noticeable  trait  of  important  men,  leaders  of  society, 


280  HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER 

that  their  interest  in  character,  their  ability  to  describe  it  in 
conversation,  and,  more  distinctly  perhaps,  their  mastery  of  the 
life  stories  of  famous  men  are  points  of  pride  with  them? 

Now  the  art  of  describing  character  in  a  narrative  lies  largely 
in  making  a  technique  of  these  human  interests.  Any  man 
who  will  cultivate  this  technique  consciously  is  giving  his  mind 
a  most  valuable  exercise  and  criticism.  The  exercise,  of  course, 
demands  a  peculiar  skill,  only  a  small  part  of  which  we  can  hope 
to  discuss.  Let  any  one  try,  who  thinks  it  easy,  to  introduce 
one  of  his  friends  into  a  story  and  have  him  recognized,  or, 
better  still,  let  him  attempt  to  give  a  recognizable  account  of 
his  own  character.  Surely  you  know  yourself  as  intimately 
as  you  know  the  hero  of  your  favorite  novel.  You  have  at  your 
command  a  hundred  times  as  many  details  of  your  life  as  of 
his.  Yet  when  you  try  to  give  a  stranger  some  notion  of  this 
intimate,  vivid  knowledge,  how  vague  and  piecemeal  is  the 
outline.  The  discrepancy  is  due,  however,  far  more  to  your 
lack  of  skill  in  regard  to  what  sort  of  details  really  count  in  such 
a  picture  than  to  any  lack  of  general  observation. 

The  technique  of  character  analysis  or  portrayal  is  merely 
the  study  of  what  counts.  And  the  first  rule  for  testing  what 
counts  in  a  story  on  paper  is  to  decide  whether  it  would  count 
in  the  actual  career  of  the  character.  In  making  your  character 
effective,  a  manner,  an  opinion,  an  act  will  have  no  more  weight 
on  paper  than  it  would  have  in  life.  Therefore  any  sound 
advice  which  one  may  give  about  character  description  in  a 
story  should  be  based  on  the  principles  by  which  character  is 
judged  in  the  world. 

For  instance,  the  student  of  character  knows  that  he  judges 
men,  and  especially  himself,  not  by  abstractions  but  by  con- 
crete evidence.  You  have  a  reputation  with  yourself  for 
frankness.  You  often  tell  yourself  how  frank  you  are.  You 
try  to  regard  it  as  an  admirable  trait.  But  somehow  you  can 
think   of  very   few   important   incidents  in   your  career   that 


HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER  281 

admirably  illustrate  this  chief  trait  of  yours.  Well,  then, 
probably  you  are  not  frank.  Probably  you  are  a  hypocrite  — 
and  I  imagine  that  you  will  find  it  far  easier  to  recall  crucial 
instances  of  this  other  dominant  trait. 

A  good  rule  for  describing  character  —  as  also  for  judging 
men  —  is  to  fight  shy  of  the  blinding  abstractions.  There  are 
a  lot  of  words,  acceptably  vague,  like  gentleman,  sincere,  honest, 
frank,  democratic,  words  which  descend  to  us  glibly  from  the 
general  talk,  and  by  which  we  cover  our  ignorance  of  the  case 
in  hand.  In  describing  character  do  not  use  these  words  with- 
out defining  or  illustrating  them. 

Let  us  suppose  that  you  have  just  read  Middlemarch,  one 
thousand  pages,  and  feel  that  you  know  Dorothea  Brooke 
pretty  well.  Dorothea,  you  say,  is  a  proud  girl,  high  minded, 
above  the  world,  very  beautiful,  caring  little  for  dress  or  orna- 
ment, ambitious  to  do  good.  She  would  like  to  sacrifice  herself 
for  some  great  purpose.  .  All  this  about  Dorothea  is  true  and  to 
one  who  has  just  read  the  book  it  may  even  appear  specific. 
But  is  this  a  picture  of  Dorothea's  character?  The  trouble 
with  these  data  is  that,  while  they  are  all  true,  they  do  not 
characterize.  The  word  character  means  to  mark,  and  that 
means  to  make  specific  and  recognizable. 

Let  us  take  the  general  truth  that  Dorothea  is  beautiful  and 
does  not  care  for  ornaments  —  how  shall  we  make  that  specific? 
"Miss  Brooke,"  says  George  Eliot,  "had  that  kind  of  beauty 
which  seems  to  be  thrown  into  relief  by  poor  dress.  Her  hand 
and  wrist  were  so  finely  formed  that  she  could  wear  sleeves  not 
less  bare  of  style  than  those  in  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  appeared 
to  Italian  painters;  and  her  profile  as  well  as  her  stature  and 
bearing  seemed  to  gain  the  more  dignity  from  her  plain  gar- 
ments, which  by  the  side  of  provincial  fashion  gave  her  the  im- 
pressiveness  of  a  fine  quotation  from  the  Bible  —  or  from  one 
of  our  elder  poets  —  in  a  paragraph  of  to-day's  newspaper." 
Then,   to   make   this   still   more   marked,  more  characteristic, 


282  HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER 

we  at  once  see  Dorothea  in  contrast  with  her  sister  Celia. 
"She  was  usually  spoken  of  as  being  remarkably  clever,  but 
with  the  addition  that  her  sister  Celia  had  more  common 
sense.  Nevertheless,  Celia  wore  scarcely  more  trimmings; 
and  it  was  only  to  close  observers  that  her  dress  differed  from 
her  sister's,  and  had  a  shade  of  coquetry  in  its  arrangements; 
for  Miss  Brooke's  plain  dressing  was  due  to  mixed  conditions, 
in  most  of  which  her  sister  shared." 

But  no  character  will  ever  stand  out  sharply  till  she  acts  and 
speaks.  In  order  to  bring  Dorothea's  traits  into  full  relief, 
George  Eliot,  therefore,  hastens  to  introduce  a  characterizing 
situation.  As  the  sisters  divide  their  mother's  jewels  you 
see  Dorothea  unforgetably.  After  this  little  scene  you  will 
make  a  very  fair  guess  at  what  she  would  do  in  any  situation,  for 
you  have  seen  her  once  with  great  clarity.  She  has  made  a 
characteristic  impression.  You  know  far  better  than  before 
what  is  meant  by  the  statement  that  Dorothea  is  beautiful 
and  that  she  does  not  care  for  ornaments. 

There  are  a  dozen  varieties  of  method  for  describing  character, 
but  they  are  all  related  to  one  that  is  both  the  most  direct  and 
the  commonest:  Think  in  advance  of  a  situation  or  incident, 
illustrating  what  you  regard  as  most  typical  in  the  character, 
and  first  of  all  define  and  discuss  this  typical  quality.  Now  make 
it  specific  by  giving  the  situation  which  you  had  in  mind.  This 
situation  may  be  called  a  characterizing  situation.  A  series  of 
such  situations  usually  occupies  the  opening  chapters  of  bio- 
graphical novels.  In  Vanity  Fair  or  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  or 
The  Egoist,  for  example,  nothing  of  great  importance  for  the  plot 
happens  until  we  are  prepared  through  a  gradual  acquaintance 
with  the  characters  to  judge  of  its  real  significance.  The  next 
step  is  to  test  the  judgment  which  characterizing  situations 
make,  by  citing  some  important  incident  in  your  character's 
career.  This  incident  may  be  called  the  first  marking  incident. 
If  he  acts  in  this  issue  as  one  would  expect  him  to  act  from  the 


HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER  283 

preliminary  portrayal  and  from  the  characterizing  situations 
which  you  have  supplied,  you  have  what  can  be  well  called  a 
line  on  his  character. 

You  will  probably  agree  that  this  is  the  usual  method  of  ob- 
serving and  judging  character  in  life;  it  is  the  almost  universal 
method  in  fiction.  The  constructive  imagination  of  the  writer 
of  stories  is  formed  on  the  habits  of  ordinary  thinking.  So  this 
method  can  be  almost  perfectly  illustrated  from  any  well 
written  novel,  by  choosing  first  some  characterizing  situation 
and  by  then  taking,  at  a  later  moment  in  the  plot,  some  marking 
incident. 

This  is  the  method  of-  several  of  the  following  selections. 
The  Brooke  sisters  and  the  Baines  sisters  are  seen  in  character- 
izing situations  at  the  very  beginning  of  their  stories.  It  would 
be  easy  to  choose  two  other  incidents  toward  the  end  of  these 
novels  where  the  prophetic  marks  of  character  are  fulfilling  their 
destiny.  In  the  passages  from  The  Octopus,  Far  from  the 
Madding  Crowd,  and  Eugenie  Grandet,  this  test  or  line  has  been 
actually  carried  through.  The  first  scene  is  a  characterizing 
scene,  the  second  a  marking  incident  in  which  the  characters 
act  consistently  with  what  one  has  first  learned  of  them.  This 
same  scheme  is  observable  in  the  two  selections  from  Stevenson 
—  the  biographical  essay  on  Francois  Villon  in  which  the  poet's 
character  is  defined  and  the  imagined  typical  incident  in  Villon's 
career  which  Stevenson  makes  into  his  famous  yarn,  A  Lodging 
for  the  Night. 

With  this  general  method  of  study  in  mind,  let  us  now  ask  if 
there  is  any  way  of  determining  what  sort  of  situation  and 
incident  is  most  effective  in  bringing  out  salient  features  of 
character.  The  author  of  Eugenie  Grandet  knows  that  his 
heroine  has  fine  daring  and  also  great  capacity  for  sacrifice. 
If  we  could  think  of  her  as  a  writer's  puppet  or  stock  figure, 
before  entering  the  plot  of  her  novel,  she  would  appear  to  us 
as  personifying  those  two  qualities.     After  reading  the  book 


284  HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER 

we  know  that  the  incidents  which  count  for  most  are  those  which 
heighten  these  qualities.  Could  we  meet  Buck  Annixter  out- 
side the  plot  of  The  Octopus,  at  a  summer  hotel  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  for  example,  we  should  still  expect  to  find  a  man  who 
was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  the  board  or  the  fishing,  and 
who  probably  discovered  that  the  hotel  prices  were  evidence  of 
a  stupendous  system  of  graft.  Outside  their  novels,  however, 
characters  may  be  supposed  to  be  very  much  more  like  the  rest 
of  us  —  that  is,  very  variable.  The  difference  between  a  story 
and  the  daily  run  of  life  lies  almost  entirely  in  this  —  a  character 
in  life  may  do,  from  one  end  of  the  week  to  the  other,  a  hundred 
different  things,  hold  a  lot  of  miscellaneous  opinions,  and  fall 
into  a  variety  of  moods,  without  in  any  way  growing  incon- 
sistent or  unlifelike;  but  the  same  character  in  a  book  is  limited 
to  a  small  variety  of  attitudes  and  actions,  all  of  which  must 
either  forward  the  movement  of  the  plot  or  illustrate  aspects  of 
character  that  affect  the  plot.  The  examination  of  a  novel 
by  the  method  previously  described  will  therefore  give  us  the 
key  for  answering  the  question  about  what  sort  of  situation 
best  brings  out  salient  characteristics. 

In  The  Octopus,  a  rather  amateurish  novel,  but  a  document 
that  offers  singular  opportunity  for  the  study  of  this  literary 
method  in  the  making,  we  first  see  Buck  Annixter  in  one  of  his 
typical  sulky  bilious  fits  eating  dried  prunes  on  his  veranda 
and  cursing  at  the  world.  Annixter  is  always  at  war  with  the 
world.  He  sees  in  it  nothing  friendly.  He  is  nearly  always 
bilious,  suspicious,  jealous.  It  is  this  temper  that  determines 
his  career.  To  understand  the  succeeding  incidents  of  the  novel 
you  have  to  see  this  biliousness, .  which  is  their  physical  or 
nervous  cause.  With  the  veranda  scene  in  the  background, 
the  first  crucial  incident  when  Annixter  orders  his  foreman  off 
the  ranch  is  a  perfectly  natural  scene.  It  is  exactly  character- 
istic and  also  a  most  important  turn  in  the  plot.  But  with 
nothing  concrete,  like  the  veranda  scene,  in  the  background 


HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER  285 

of  Annixter's  temper  —  nothing  but  the  statement,  let  us  say, 
that  he  was  of  bilious  disposition — you  would  find  this  marking 
incident  forced  and  unnatural,  and  you  would  see  in  it  only 
the  author's  arbitrary  manipulation  of  his  plot. 

We  may  conclude,  then,  that  an  incident  to  bring  out  features 
of  character  effectively  must  be  a  crucial  incident  in  the  plot, 
in  the  career  of  the  character.  It  must  both  illustrate  a  domi- 
nant trait  and  definitely  forward  or  turn  the  action. 

It  may  be  noticed  that  it  is  precisely  by  this  kind  of  incident 
that  one  prefers  to  judge  a  man  in  his  actual  career.  If  you 
have  a  reputation  for  being  careless,  inaccurate,  absent-minded 
in  small,  everyday  matters,  doubtless  your  friends  feel  that  the 
same  traits  will  appear  in  some  important  connection.  You 
think  they  are  wrong.  "As  soon  as  I  have  some  work  to  do 
that  I  really  care  about,"  you  say,  "I  shall  pay  sharp  attention 
to  it."  The  question  in  one's  mind  is  whether  habit  will  not 
be  too  strong  for  you,  and  you  are  going  to  be  judged  by  a 
crucial  incident  or  two  that  tests  how  far  your  reputation  (your 
everyday  character)  really  defines  your  will.  So  common 
is  this  question  to  all  our  lives  that  many  a  novel  has  it 
for  a  fundamental  thesis  —  everyday  character  is  destiny. 
George  Eliot's  Maggie  Tulliver  and  Joseph  Conrad's  Lord  Jim 
are  excellent  examples  of  it. 

Every  man's  character  may  be  thus  said  to  suggest  a  story, 
the  plot  of  which  we  discover  more  clearly  by  defining  his 
dominant  traits,  by  adding  typical  situations  and  marking  inci- 
dents in  which  such  traits  play  the  decisive  part. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  principles  by  which  action  is  made 
characteristic  and  character  is  brought  out  in  action.  If  these 
larger  matters  are  understood,  the  details  and  "tricks"  of 
characterization  will  usually  take  care  of  themselves.  Espe- 
cially will  they  be  less  apt  to  assume  an  isolated  importance  or 
to  be  introduced  without  sufficient  reference  to  the  role  the 
character  plays  in  the  plot.     For  too  frequently  the  amateur 


286  HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER 

gives  his  people  an  inventory  of  features  merely  for  their  own 
sake  —  a  bright  blue  eye,  or  a  mole  on  the  chin,  a  little  nervous 
habit  of  tightening  the  necktie,  or  a  slight  stammer  in  speech  — 
without  asking  if  these  are  in  any  way  characteristic  features. 
Undoubtedly  we  want  to  have  some  notion  of  what  the  people 
in  a  story  look  like,  and  often  of  what  they  wear.  Even  a 
momentary  vividness  has  its  value,  but  the  details  that  finally 
count  for  us  are  those  emphasing  the  role  the  character  plays. 
Other  details  can  be  filled  in  by  our  independent  fancy. 

In  this  respect  Balzac's  Old  Grandet  is  a  masterpiece.  Every- 
thing about  him  —  his  stammer,  his  scowl,  his  watch  chain,  the 
jack-knife  with  which  he  whittles  his  piece  of  bread  at  break- 
fast —  seems  to  count  in  the  plot.  The  stammer,  in  fact,  plays 
an  important  role,  and  all  make  a  perfect  stage-setting  for  his 
character.  In  the  same  way  the  characterizing  details  of  young 
Charles  Grandet's  dress,  the  articles  in  his  portmanteau,  his 
fashionable  toilet,  make  an  ominous  impression.  Your  fears 
for  Eugenie  are  roused  in  advance.  In  Stevenson's  picture  of 
Francois  Villon  there  are  many  strokes  and  not  one  wasted: 
"The  poet  was  a  rag  of  a  man,  dark,  little,  and  lean,  with  hollow 
cheeks  and  thin  black  locks.  He  carried  his  four-and-twenty 
years  with  feverish  animation.  Greed  had  made  folds  about 
his  eyes,  evil  smiles  had  puckered  his  mouth.  The  wolf  and  pig 
struggled  together  in  his  face.  It  was  an  eloquent,  sharp, 
ugly,  earthly  countenance.  His  hands  were  small  and  pre- 
hensile, with  fingers  knotted  like  a  cord;  and  they  were  con- 
tinually flickering  in  front  of  him  in  violent  and  expressive 
pantomime."  All  these  details  explain  the  character  who  talks 
so  astonishingly  in  the  dialogue  with  the  Bailly  du  Patatrac. 

It  is  very  frequent  and  very  poor  advice  that  much  de- 
scription of  character  is  space  wasted.  But  it  is  true  that  the 
short  story  with  a  compact  plot  has  little  time  for  it.  The 
details  must  be  the  briefest  and  the  most  suggestive.  Mau- 
passant has  but  small  space  to  devote  to  Monsieur  Loisel. 


HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER  287 

We  know  nothing  about  his  looks.  They  do  not  count  in  the 
plot.  We  really  know  next  to  nothing  about  the  man,  and  yet 
he  is  real  —  simply  because  he  had  been  saving  up  his  money 
to  buy  a  shot-gun,  and  because  he  used  to  sit  down  to  the  supper 
his  wife  prepared  and  exclaim,  "Ah,  the  good  old  stew!"  For 
some  reason  we  recognize  at  once  a  homely,  plodding,  unimagi- 
native man.  He  is  a  mere  type,  like  so  many  mere  individuals. 
He  has  been  humanized  for  the  moment,  but  not  denned.  It 
was  not  necessary. 

For  purposes  of  brief  characterization  a  single  obtrusive 
habit  is  often  sufficient.  The  dramatists  and  actors  have 
taught  us  this,  and  we  can  see  the  principle,  if  we  look,  in 
nearly  everybody  we  know.  The  absurd  skip  in  Lord  Dun- 
dreary's walk,  my  friend's  habit  of  rolling  his  tongue  across  his 
mouth  whenever  he  thinks  he  is  talking  unusually  well,  some- 
how denote  temperament.  The  cartoonists  have  made  these 
labels  their  life  study.  To  describe  a  character  by  contrast 
is  also  an  economical  and  a  very  true  method.  It  is  only  by 
contrast  with  our  fellows  that  most  of  us  take  on  any  char- 
acter (any  marks)  at  all.  We  see  Celia  and  Dorothea,  Constance 
and  Sophia,  each  more  sharply  because  of  shades  and  distinctions 
which  come  out  only  when  they  are  placed  over  against  each 
other.  Any  true  dramatic  confrontation  emphazises  the  domi- 
nant traits.  Eugenie  takes  on  a  heightened  beauty  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  father;  he,  in  turn,  grows  more  dour.  It  would  be 
hard  to  conceive  anybody  else  in  the  city  of  Paris  who  could  serve 
so  well  to  emphasize  Villon's  humor  as  the  eminently  respectable 
Bailly  du  Patatrac,  beneficent  and  philosophical,  but  to  whose 
marvelously  civilized  urbanity  Villon  is  utterly  impervious. 

Nearly  the  whole  art  of  fiction  lies  in  genius  for  reproducing, 
defining,  and  creating  characters.  To  reproduce  is  to  define, 
to  define  is  to  create.  A  sheerly  fanciful  character  does  not 
exist.  But  the  imagination  for  making  up,  out  of  experience, 
a  new  man,  different  from  any  other  in  our  acquaintance,  is 


288  HOW  TO  DESCRIBE  CHARACTER 

the  resource  of  the  story  teller.  For  since  no  two  men  are  alike 
in  life,  so  in  a  story,  if  a  character  is  to  be  real  to  us,  he  must  be 
slightly  different  from  all  others  both  in  life  and  in  fiction. 
The  processes  by  which  a  character  grows  thus  distinct,  different, 
real,  in  the  mind  of  a  writer  are,  of  course,  much  the  same  as 
those  by  which  he  would  become  so  in  the  acquaintance  of  life. 
They  are  gradual  processes.  Every  scene  in  which  he  is  to 
play  a  part  develops  him.  If  the  writer  knows  the  whole  plot, 
he  has  in  mind  a  series  of  tests  for  him  that  do  much  to  define 
him  in  advance.  But  a  thoroughly  preconceived  character 
in  fiction  is  probably  as  rare  as  a  Minerva  springing  fully  armed 
from  the  forehead  of  Jupiter. 

The  art  of  describing  character  is  perhaps  the  only  universal 
art.  At  all  events  everyone  boasts  some  skill  in  it.  And  in 
a  college  course,  if  honestly  followed,  it  can  be  one  of  the  best 
exercises  by  which  we  prepare  ourselves  sympathetically  for 
the  world  in  which  we  live. 


XXII.  THE  BROOKE   SISTERS1 
George  Eliot 

[^Throughout  the  long  novel  of  Middlemarch,  Dorothea  and  Celia  Brooke  take 
much  the  same  attitude  toward  life  and  toward  each  other  which  they  display  in 
this  first  chapter.  Celia  is  contented,  interested  in  things  close  to  her;  Dorothea 
is  romantic,  longing  for  something  else  than  what  is  at  hand.  The  consequence 
is  that  Dorothea,  who  is  the  heroine  of  the  main  plot  of  the  novel  (there  are  three 
distinct  plots  woven  together  in  Middlemarch) ,  has  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it,  com- 
pared with  her  sister.  On  moral  and  romantic  grounds  she  first  marries  an  elderly 
scholar,  in  order  to  be  of  use  to  him  in  his  literary  work.  On  moral  and  romantic 
grounds  after  his  death,  she  refuses  for  a  long  time  to  marry  his  nephew  for  fear  of 
embarrassing  an  ambitious  career.  Every  act  and  every  decision  of  her  life  is  com- 
plicated by  her  "principles."  Celia,  on  the  other  hand,  accepts  happily  what  for- 
tune first  throws  in  her  way,  and  fits  into  life  so  neatly  that  she  always  appears 
as  the  saner  and  more  useful  woman  of  the  two.  This  first  characterizing  scene 
forecasts  their  two  fates  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  writing  on  the  wall.  These  two  sis- 
ters should  be  compared  with  Sophia  and  Constance  Baines  in  the  next  selection. J 

Miss  Brooke  had  that  kind  of  beauty  which  seems  to  be 
thrown  into  relief  by  poor  dress.  Her  hand  and  wrist  were 
so  finely  formed  that  she  could  wear  sleeves  not  less  bare  of 
style  than  those  in  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  appeared  to  Italian 
painters;  and  her  profile  as  well  as  her  stature  and  bearing 
seemed  to  gain  the  more  dignity  from  her  plain  garments, 
which  by  the  side  of  provincial  fashion  gave  her  the  impressive- 
ness  of  a  fine  quotation  from  the  Bible  —  or  from  one  of  our 
elder  poets  —  in  a  paragraph  of  to-day's  newspaper.  She 
was  usually  spoken  of  as  being  remarkably  clever,  but  with  the 
addition  that  her  sister  Celia  had  more  common  sense.  Never- 
theless, Celia  wore  scarcely  more  trimmings;  and  it  was  only 
to  close  observers  that  her  dress  differed  from  her  sister's,  and 
had  a  shade  of  coquetry  in  its  arrangements;  for  Miss  Brooke's 
plain  dressing  was  due  to  mixed  conditions,  in  most  of  which 

1  Reprinted  from  Middlemarch. 


290  THE  BROOKE  SISTERS 

her  sister  shared.  The  pride  of  being  ladies  had  something  to 
do  with  it:  the  Brooke  connections,  though  not  exactly  aristo- 
cratic, were  unquestionably  "good":  if  you  inquired  backward 
for  a  generation  or  two,  you  would  not  find  any  yard-measuring 
or  parcel-tying  forefathers  —  anything  lower  than  an  admiral 
or  a  clergyman;  and  there  was  even  an  ancestor  discernible 
as  a  Puritan  gentleman  who  served  under  Cromwell,  but  after- 
wards conformed,  and  managed  to  come  out  of  all  political 
troubles  as  the  proprietor  of  a  respectable  family  estate.  Young 
women  of  such  birth,  living  in  a  quiet  country  house,  and  at- 
tending a  village  church  hardly  larger  than  a  parlor,  naturally 
regarded  frippery  as  the  ambition  of  a  huckster's  daughter. 
Then  there  was  well-bred  economy,  which  in  those  days  made 
show  in  dress  the  first  item  to  be  deducted  from,  when  any 
margin  was  required  for  expenses  more  distinctive  of  rank. 
Such  reasons  would  have  been  enough  to  account  for  plain 
dress,  quite  apart  from  religious  feeling;  but  in  Miss  Brooke's 
case  religion  alone  would  have  determined  it;  and  Celia  mildly 
acquiesced  in  all  her  sister's  sentiments,  only  infusing  them  with 
that  common  sense  which  is  able  to  accept  momentous  doctrines 
without  any  eccentric  agitation.  Dorothea  knew  many  pas- 
sages of  Pascal's  Pensees  and  of  Jeremy  Taylor  by  heart;  and 
to  her  the  destinies  of  mankind,  seen  by  the  light  of  Christi- 
anity, made  the  solicitudes  of  feminine  fashion  appear  an 
occupation  for  Bedlam.  She  could  not  reconcile  the  anxieties 
of  a  spiritual  life  involving  eternal  consequences  with  a  keen 
interest  in  gimp  and  artificial  protrusions  of  drapery.  Her 
mind  was  theoretic,  and  yearned  by  its  nature  after  some  lofty 
conception  of  the  world  which  might  frankly  include  the  parish 
of  Tipton  and  her  own  rule  of  conduct  there;  she  was  enamored 
of  intensity  and  greatness,  and  rash  in  embracing  whatever 
seemed  to  her  to  have  those  aspects;  likely  to  seek  martyrdom, 
to  make  retractions,  and  then  to  incur  martyrdom,  after  all, 
in  a  quarter  where  she  had  not  sought  it.     Certainly  such 


GEORGE  ELIOT  291 

elements  in  the  character  of  a  marriageable  girl  tended  to  inter- 
fere with  her  lot,  and  hinder  it  from  being  decided,  according 
to  custom,  by  good  looks,  vanity,  and  merely  canine  affection. 
With  all  this,  she,  the  elder  of  the  sisters,  was  not  yet  twenty, 
and  they  had  both  been  educated,  since  they  were  about  twelve 
years  old  and  had  lost  their  parents,  on  plans  at  once  narrow 
and  promiscuous,  first  in  an  English  family  and  afterward 
in  a  Swiss  family  at  Lausanne,  their  bachelor  uncle  and  guard- 
ian trying  in  this  way  to  remedy  the  disadvantages  of  their 
orphaned  condition.  .  .  . 

The  rural  opinion  about  the  new  young  ladies,  even  among 
the  cottagers,  was  generally  in  favor  of  Celia,  as  being  so  amiable 
and  innocent-looking,  while  Miss  Brooke's  large  eyes  seemed, 
like  her  religion,  too  unusual  and  striking.  Poor  Dorothea! 
Compared  with  her,  the  innocent-looking  Celia  was  knowing 
and  worldly-wise;  so  much  subtler  is  a  human  mind  than  the 
outside  tissues  which  make  a  sort  of  blazonry  or  clock-face  for  it. 

Yet  those  who  approached  Dorothea,  though  prejudiced 
against  her  by  this  alarming  hearsay,  found  that  she  had  a 
charm  unaccountably  reconcilable  with  it.  Most  men  thought 
her  bewitching  when  she  was  on  horseback.  She  loved  the 
fresh  air  and  the  various  aspects  of  the  country,  and  when  her 
eyes  and  cheeks  glowed  with  mingled  pleasures  she  looked  very 
little  like  a  devotee.  Riding  was  an  indulgence  which  she 
allowed  herself  in  spite  of  conscientious  qualms;  she  felt  that 
she  enjoyed  it  in  a  pagan,  sensuous  way,  and  always  looked 
forward  to  renouncing  it. 

She  was  open,  ardent,  and  not  in  the  least  self-admiring; 
indeed,  it  was  pretty  to  see  how  her  imagination  adorned  her 
sister  Celia  with  attractions  altogether  superior  to  her  own, 
and  if  any  gentleman  appeared  to  come  to  the  Grange  from 
some  other  motive  than  that  of  seeing  Mr.  Brooke,  she  concluded 
that  he  must  be  in  love  with  Celia.  Sir  James  Chettam,  for 
example,  whom  she  constantly  considered  from  Celia's  point 


292  THE  BROOKE  SISTERS 

of  view,  inwardly  debating  whether  it  would  be  good  for  Celia 
to  accept  him.  That  he  should  be  regarded  as  a  suitor  to  herself 
would  have  seemed  to  her  a  ridiculous  irrelevance.  Dorothea, 
with  all  her  eagerness  to  know  the  truths  of  life,  retained  very 
child-like  ideas  about  marriage.  She  felt  sure  that  she  would 
have  accepted  the  judicious  Hooker,  if  she  had  been  born  in  time 
to  save  him  from  that  wretched  mistake  he  made  in  matrimony; 
or  John  Milton  when  his  blindness  had  come  on;  or  any  of  the 
other  great  men  whose  odd  habits  it  would  have  been  glorious 
piety  to  endure;  but  an  amiable,  handsome  baronet,  who  said 
"exactly"  to  her  remarks  even  when  she  expressed  uncertainty 
—  how  could  he  affect  her  as  a  lover?  The  really  delightful 
marriage  must  be  that  where  your  husband  was  a  sort  of  father, 
and  could  teach  you  even  Hebrew  if  you  wished  it. 

These  peculiarities  of  Dorothea's  character  caused  Mr. 
Brooke  to  be  all  the  more  blamed  in  neighboring  families  for 
not  securing  some  middle-aged  lady  as  guide  and  companion 
to  his  nieces.  But  he  himself  dreaded  so  much  the  sort  of 
superior  woman  likely  to  be  available  for  such  a  position,  that 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  dissuaded  by  Dorothea's  objections, 
and  was  in  this  case  brave  enough  to  defy  the  world  —  that 
is  to  say,  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  the  rector's  wife,  and  the  small 
group  of  gentry  with  whom  he  visited  in  the  northeast  corner 
of  Loamshire.  So  Miss  Brooke  presided  in  her  uncle's  house- 
hold, and  did  not  at  all  dislike  her  new  authority,  with  the 
homage  that  belonged  to  it. 

Sir  James  Chettam  was  going  to  dine  at  the  Grange  to-day 
with  another  gentleman  whom  the  girls  had  never  seen,  and 
about  whom  Dorothea  felt  some  venerating  expectation.  This 
was  the  Reverend  Edward  Casaubon,  noted  in  the  county  as 
a  man  of  profound  learning,  understood  for  many  years  to  be 
engaged  on  a  great  work  concerning  religious  history;  also  as 
a  man  of  wealth  enough  to  give  luster  to  his  piety,  and  having 
views  of  his  own  which  were  to  be  more  clearly  ascertained 


GEORGE  ELIOT  293 

on  the  publication  of  his  book.  His  very  name  carried  an 
impressiveness  hardly  to  be  measured  without  a  precise  chro- 
nology of  scholarship. 

Early  in  the  day  Dorothea  had  returned  from  the  infant- 
school  which  she  had  set  going  in  the  village,  and  was  taking 
her  usual  place  in  the  pretty  sitting-room  which  divided  the 
bedrooms  of  the  sisters,  bent  on  finishing  a  plan  for  some  build- 
ings (a  kind  of  work  which  she  delighted  in),  when  Celia,  who 
had  been  watching  her  with  a  hesitating  desire  to  propose 
something,  said, 

"Dorothea  dear,  if  you  don't  mind  —  if  you  are  not  very 
busy  —  suppose  we  look  at  mamma's  jewels  to-day,  and  di- 
vide them?  It  is  exactly  six  months  to-day  since  uncle  gave 
them  to  you,  and  you  have  not  looked  at  them  yet." 

Celia's  face  had  the  shadow  of  a  pouting  expression  in  it, 
the  full  presence  of  the  pout  being  kept  back  by  an  habitual 
awe  of  Dorothea  and  principle;  two  associated  facts  which 
might  show  a  mysterious  electricity  if  you  touched  them  incau- 
tiously. To  her  relief,  Dorothea's  eyes  were  full  of  laughter 
as  she  looked  up. 

"What  a  wonderful  little  almanac  you  are,  Celia!  Is  it 
six  calendar  or  six  lunar  months?" 

"It  is  the  last  day  of  September  now,  and  it  was  the  first 
of  April  when  uncle  gave  them  to  you.  You  know,  he  said 
that  he  had  forgotten  them  till  then.  I  believe  you  have  never 
thought  of  them  since  you  locked  them  up  in  the  cabinet  here." 

"Well,  dear,  we  should  never  wear  them,  you  know."  Doro- 
thea spoke  in  a  full  cordial  tone,  half  caressing,  half  explanatory. 
She  had  her  pencil  in  her  hand,  and  was  making  tiny  side-plans 
on  a  margin. 

Celia  colored,  and  looked  very  grave.  "I  think,  dear,  we 
are  wanting  in  respect  to  mamma's  memory,  to  put  them  by 
and  take  no  notice  of  them.  And,"  she  added,  after  hesitating 
a  little,  with  a  rising  sob  of  mortification,  "necklaces  are  quite 


2Q4  THE  BROOKE  SISTERS 

usual  now;  and  Madame  Poincon,  who  was  stricter  in  some 
things  even  than  you  are,  used  to  wear  ornaments.  And 
Christians  generally  —  surely  there  are  women  in  heaven  now 
who  wore  jewels."  Celia  was  conscious  of  some  mental  strength 
when  she  really  applied  herself  to  argument. 

"You  would  like  to  wear  them?"  exclaimed  Dorothea,  an 
air  of  astonished  discovery  animating  her  whole  person  with 
a  dramatic  action  which  she  had  caught  from  that  very  Madame 
Poincon  who  wore  the  ornaments.  "Of  course,  then,  let  us 
have  them  out.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?  But  the 
keys,  the  keys!"  She  pressed  her  hands  against  the  sides  of  her 
head  and  seemed  to  despair  of  her  memory. 

"They  are  here,"  said  Celia,  with  whom  this  explanation  had 
been  long  meditated  and  prearranged. 

"Pray  open  the  large  drawer  of  the  cabinet  and  get  out 
the  jewel-box." 

The  casket  was  soon  open  before  them,  and  the  various 
jewels  spread  out,  making  a  bright  parterre  on  the  table.  It 
was  no  great  collection,  but  a  few  of  the  ornaments  were  really 
of  remarkable  beauty,  the  finest  that  was  obvious  at  first  being 
a  necklace  of  purple  amethysts  set  in  exquisite  gold-work, 
and  a  pearl  cross  with  five  brilliants  in  it.  Dorothea  immediately 
took  up  the  necklace  and  fastened  it  around  her  sister's  neck, 
where  it  fitted  almost  as  closely  as  a  bracelet;  but  the  circle 
suited  the  Henrietta-Maria  style  of  Celia's  head  and  neck, 
and  she  could  see  that  it  did,  in  the  pier-glass  opposite. 

"There,  Celia!  you  can  wear  that  with  your  Indian  muslin. 
But  this  cross  you  must  wear  with  your  dark  dresses." 

Celia  was  trying  not  to  smile  with  pleasure.  "Oh,  Dodo, 
you  must  keep  the. cross  yourself." 

"No,  no,  dear  —  no,"  said  Dorothea,  putting  up  her  hand 
with  careless  deprecation. 

"Yes,  indeed  you  must;  it  would  suit  you  —  in  your  black 
dress  now,"  said  Celia,  insistingly.     "You  might  wear  that." 


GEORGE  ELIOT  295 

"Not  for  the  world,  not  for  the  world.  A  cross  is  the  last 
thing  I  would  wear  as  a  trinket."     Dorothea  shuddered  slightly. 

"Then  you  will  think  it  wicked  in  me  to  wear  it,"  said  Celia, 
uneasily. 

"No,  dear,  no,"  said  Dorothea,  stroking  her  sister's  cheek. 
"Souls  have  complexions  too:  what  will  suit  one  will  not  suit 
another." 

"But  you  might  like  to  keep  it  for  mamma's  sake." 

"No,  I  have  other  things  of  mamma's  —  her  sandal- wood  box 
which  I  am  so  fond  of  —  plenty  of  things.  In  fact,  they  are 
all  yours,  dear.  We  need  discuss  them  no  longer.  There  — 
take  away  your  property." 

Celia  felt  a  little  hurt.  There  was  a  strong  assumption  of 
superiority  in  this  Puritanic  toleration,  hardly  less  trying  to 
the  blonde  flesh  of  an  unenthusiastic  sister  than  a  Puritanic 
persecution. 

"But  how  can  I  wear  ornaments,  if  you,  who  are  the  elder 
sister,  will  never  wear  them?" 

"Nay,  Celia,  that  is  too  much  to  ask,  that  I  should  wear 
trinkets  to  keep  you  in  countenance.  If  I  were  to  put  on 
such  a  necklace  as  that,  I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  been  pirouetting. 
The  world  would  go  round  with  me,  and  I  should  not  know  how 
to  walk." 

Celia  had  unclasped  the  necklace  and  drawn  it  off.  "It 
would  be  a  little  tight  for  your  neck;  something  to  lie  down 
and  hang  would  suit  you  better,"  she  said,  with  some  satis- 
faction. The  complete  unfitness  of  the  necklace  from  all 
points  of  view  for  Dorothea  made  Celia  happier  in  taking  it. 
She  was  opening  some  ring-boxes,  which  disclosed  a  fine  em- 
erald with  diamonds,  and  just  then  the  sun  passing  beyond  a 
cloud  sent  a  bright  gleam  over  the  table. 

"How  very  beautiful  these  gems  are!"  said  Dorothea,  under 
a  new  current  of  feeling,  as  sudden  as  the  gleam.  "It  is  strange 
how  deeply  colors  seem  to  penetrate  one,  like  scent.     I  suppose 


296  THE  BROOKE  SISTERS 

that  is  the  reason  why  gems  are  used  as  spiritual  emblems  in  the 
Revelation  of  St.  John.  They  look  like  fragments  of  heaven. 
I  think  that  emerald  is  more  beautiful  than  any  of  them." 

"And  there  is  a  bracelet  to  match  it,"  said  Celia.  "We  did 
not  notice  this  at  first." 

"They  are  lovely,"  said  Dorothea,  slipping  the  ring  and 
bracelet  on  her  finely-turned  finger  and  wrist,  and  holding 
them  toward  the  window  on  a  level  with  her  eyes.  All  the 
while  her  thought  was  trying  to  justify  her  delight  in  the  colors 
by  merging  them  in  her  mystic  religious  joy. 

"You would  like  those,  Dorothea,"  said  Celia,  rather  fal- 
teringly,  beginning  to  think  with  wonder  that  her  sister  showed 
some  weakness,  and  also  that  emeralds  would  suit  her  own 
complexion  even  better  than  purple  amethysts.  "You  must 
keep  that  ring  and  bracelet  —  if  nothing  else.  But  see,  these 
agates  are  very  pretty  —  and  quiet." 

"Yes!  I  will  keep  these  —  this  ring  and  bracelet,"  said 
Dorothea.  Then,  letting  her  hand  fall  on  the  table,  she  said 
in  another  tone  —  "Yet  what  miserable  men  find  such  things, 
and  work  at  them,  and  sell  them!"  She  paused  again,  and 
Celia  thought  that  her  sister  was  going  to  renounce  the  orna- 
ments, as  in  consistency  she  ought  to  do. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  will  keep  these,"  said  Dorothea,  decidedly. 
"But  take  all  the  rest  away,  and  the  casket." 

She  took  up  her  pencil  without  removing  the  jewels,  and 
still  looking  at  them.  She  thought  of  often  having  them  by 
her,  to  feed  her  eye  at  these  little  fountains  of  pure  color. 

"Shall  you  wear  them  in  company?"  said  Celia,  who  was 
watching  her  with  real  curiosity  as  to  what  she  would  do. 

Dorothea  glanced  quickly  at  her  sister.  Across  all  her 
imaginative  adornment  of  those  whom  she  loved,  there  darted 
now  and  then  a  keen  discernment,  which  was  not  without  a 
scorching  quality.  If  Miss  Brooke  ever  attained  perfect  meek- 
ness, it  would  not  be  for  lack  of  inward  fire. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  297 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  rather  haughtily.  "I  can  not  tell  to 
what  level  I  may  sink." 

Celia  blushed,  and  was  unhappy;  she  saw  that  she  had 
offended  her  sister,  and  dared  not  say  even  anything  pretty 
about  the  gift  of  the  ornaments  which  she  put  back  into  the 
box  and  carried  away.  Dorothea  too  was  unhappy,  as  she 
went  on  with  her  plan-drawing,  questioning  the  purity  of  her 
own  feeling  and  speech  in  the  scene  which  had  ended  with 
that  little  explosion. 

Celia's  consciousness  told  her  that  she  had  not  been  at  all 
in  the  wrong:  it  was  quite  natural  and  justifiable  that  she 
should  have  asked  that  question,  and  she  repeated  to  herself 
that  Dorothea  was  inconsistent:  either  she  should  have  taken 
her  full  share  of  the  jewels,  or,  after  what  she  had  said,  she 
should  have  renounced  them  altogether. 

"I  am  sure  —  at  least,  I  trust,"  thought  Celia,  "that  the 
wearing  of  a  necklace  will  not  interfere  with  my  prayers.  And 
I  do  not  see  that  I  should  be  bound  by  Dorothea's  opinions, 
now  we  are  going  into  society,  though  of  course  she  herself 
ought  to  be  bound  by  them.  But  Dorothea  is  not  always 
consistent." 

Thus  Celia,  mutely  bending  over  her  tapestry,  until  she 
heard  her  sister  calling  her. 

"Here,  Kitty,  come  and  look  at  my  plan;  I  shall  think  I 
am  a  great  architect,  if  I  have  not  got  incompatible  stairs  and 
fire-places." 

As  Celia  bent  over  the  paper,  Dorothea  put  her  cheek  against 
her  sister's  arm  caressingly.  Celia  understood  the  action. 
Dorothea  saw  that  she  had  been  in  the  wrong,  and  Celia  par- 
doned her.  Since  they  could  remember,  there  had  been  a  mix- 
ture of  criticism  and  awe  in  the  attitude  of  Celia's  mind  toward 
her  elder  sister.  The  younger  had  always  worn  a  yoke;  but  is 
there  any  yoked  creature  without  its  private  opinions? 


XXIII.  THE  BAINES  SISTERS1 

Arnold  Bennett 

[The  future  of  Sophia  Baines  is  relative  to  her  whimsical  daring;  that  of 
Constance,  to  her  caution.  Sophia  marries  an  adventurer  who  deserts  her  in 
Paris,  and  she  makes  a  living  there  during  the  Franco-Prussian  war  and  for  years 
afterward  by  her  resourcefulness  and  energy.  In  the  end  she  returns  to  Con- 
stance, who  has  been  married  and  left  a  widow  by  the  homely  and  fearsome 
clerk,  Mr.  Povey,  whom  we  see  in  this  first  chapter.  The  novel  is  an  extraor- 
dinary study  of  the  development  of  the  girls  from  this  beginning  down  to  the  day 
of  their  death.'  It  is  one  of  the  most  continuous  tracings  of  character  in  all  fiction  J 

"What  time  did  mother  say  she  should  be  back?"  Sophia 
asked. 

"Not  until  supper." 

"Oh!  Hallelujah!"  Sophia  burst  out,  clasping  her  hands 
in  joy.  And  they  both  slid  down  from  the  counter  of  the  shop 
where  Sophia  and  Constance  Baines  live  with  their  mother, 
their  invalid  father,  and  Mr.  Povey,  a  clerk,  just  as  if  they  had 
been  little  boys,  and  not,  as  their  mother  called  them,  "great 
girls." 

"Let's  go  and  play  the  Osborne  quadrilles,"  Sophia  sug- 
gested (the  Osborne  quadrilles  being  a  series  of  dances  arranged 
to  be  performed  on  drawing-room  pianos  by  four  jewelled 
hands). 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it,"  said  Constance,  with  a  precocious 
gesture  of  seriousness.  In  that  gesture,  and  in  her  tone,  was 
something  which  conveyed  to  Sophia:  "Sophia,  how  can  you 
be  so  utterly  blind  to  the  gravity  of  our  fleeting  existence  as  to 
ask  me  to  go  and  strum  the  piano  with  you?"  Yet  a  moment 
before  she  had  been  a  little  boy. 

"Why  not?"  Sophia  demanded. 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Old  Wives1  Tale,  with  the  kind  permission  of  George  H 
Doran  Company  and  of  the  author. 


ARNOLD  BENNETT  299 

"I  shall  never  have  another  chance  like  to-day  for  getting 
on  with  this,"  said  Constance,  picking  up  a  bag  from  the  counter. 

She  sat  down  and  took  from  the  bag  a  piece  of  loosely  woven 
canvas,  on  which  she  was  embroidering  a  bunch  of  roses  in 
colored  wools.  .  .  .  The  canvas  was  destined  to  adorn  a  gilt 
firescreen  in  the  drawing-room,  and  also  to  form  a  birthday  gift 
to  Mrs.  Baines  from  her  elder  daughter. 

"Con,"  murmured  Sophia,  "you're  too  sickening  sometimes." 

"Well,"  said  Constance,  blandly,  "it's  no  use  pretending  that 
this  hasn  't  got  to  be  finished  before  we  go  back  to  school,  because 
it  has." 

Sophia  wandered  about,  a  prey  ripe  for  the  Evil  One.  "Oh," 
she  exclaimed  joyously  —  even  ecstatically  —  looking  behind 
the  cheval  glass,  "here's  mother's  new  skirt!  Miss  Dunn's 
been  putting  the  gimp  on  it!  Oh,  mother,  what  a  proud  thing 
you  will  be!" 

Constance  heard  swishings  behind  the  glass.  "What  are 
you  doing,  Sophia?" 

"Nothing." 

"You  surely  aren't  putting  that  skirt  on?" 

"Why  not?" 

"You'll  catch  it  finely,  I  can  tell  you!" 

Without  further  defence,  Sophia  sprang  out  from  behind 
the  immense  glass.  She  had  already  shed  a  notable  part  of 
her  own  costume,  and  the  flush  of  mischief  was  in  her  face. 
She  ran  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  examined 
carefully  a  large  colored  print  that  was  affixed  to  the  wall. 

This  print  represented  fifteen  sisters,  all  of  the  same  height 
and  slimness  of  figure,  all  of  the  same  age  —  about  twenty- 
five  or  so,  and  all  with  exactly  the  same  haughty  and  bored 
beauty.  That  they  were  in  truth  sisters  was  clear  from  the 
facial  resemblance  between  them;  their  demeanour  indicated 
that  they  were  princesses,  offspring  of  some  impossibly  prolific 
king  and  queen.     Those  hands  had  never  toiled,  nor  had  those 


300  THE  BAINES  SISTERS 

features  ever  relaxed  from  the  smile  of  courts.  The  princesses 
moved  in  a  landscape  of  marble  steps  and  verandas,  with  a 
bandstand  and  strange  trees  in  the  distance.  One  was  in  a 
riding-habit,  another  in  evening  attire,  another  dressed  for  tea, 
another  for  the  theatre,  another  seemed  to  be  ready  to  go  to 
bed.  One  held  a  little  girl  by  the  hand;  it  could  not  have  been 
her  own  little  girl,  for  these  princesses  were  far  beyond  human 
passions.  Where  had  she  obtained  the  little  girl?  Why  was 
one  sister  going  to  the  theatre,  another  to  tea,  another  to  the 
stable,  and  another  to  bed?  Why  was  one  in  a  heavy  mantle, 
and  another  sweltering  from  the  sun's  rays  under  a  parasol? 
The  picture  was  drenched  in  mystery,  and  the  strangest  thing 
about  it  was  that  all  these  highnesses  were  apparently  content 
with  the  most  ridiculous  and  out-moded  fashions.  Absurd  hats, 
with  veils  flying  behind;  absurd  bonnets,  fitting  close  to  the 
head,  and  spotted;  absurd  coiffures  that  nearly  lay  on  the  nape; 
absurd,  clumsy  sleeves;  absurd  waists,  almost  above  the  elbow's 
level;  absurd  scolloped  jackets!  And  the  skirts!  What  a  sight 
were  those  skirts!  They  were  nothing  but  vast  decorated  pyra- 
mids; on  the  summit  of  each  was  stuck  the  upper  half  of  a 
princess.  It  was  astounding  that  princesses  should  consent  to 
be  so  preposterous  and  so  uncomfortable.  But  Sophia  perceived 
nothing  uncanny  in  the  picture,  which  bore  the  legend:  "Newest 
summer  fashions  from  Paris.  Gratis  supplement  to  Myra's 
Journal."  Sophia  had  never  imagined  anything  more  stylish, 
lovely,  and  dashing  than  the  raiment  of  the  fifteen  princesses. .  . . 
Sophia  studied  them  as  the  fifteen  apostles  of  the  ne  plus  ultra: 
then,  having  taken  some  flowers  and  plumes  out  of  a  box,  amid 
warnings  from  Constance,  she  retreated  behind  the  glass,  and 
presently  emerged  as  a  great  lady  in  the  style  of  the  princesses. 
Her  mother's  tremendous  new  gown  ballooned  about  her  in  all 
its  fantastic  richness  and  expensiveness.  And  with  the  gown 
she  had  put  on  her  mother's  importance  —  that  mien  of  assured 
authority,  of  capacity  tested  in  many  a  crisis,  which  character- 


ARNOLD  BENNETT  301 

ized  Mrs.  Baines,  and  which  Mrs.  Baines  seemed  to  impart  to 
her  dresses  even  before  she  had  regularly  worn  them.  For  it 
was  a  fact  that  Mrs.  Baines's  empty  garments  inspired  respect, 
as  though  some  essence  had  escaped  from  her  and  remained  in 
them. 

"Sophia!" 

Constance  stayed  her  needle,  and,  without  lifting  her  head, 
gazed,  with  eyes  raised  from  her  wool-work,  motionless  at  the 
posturing  figure  of  her  sister.  It  was  sacrilege  that  she  was 
witnessing,  a  prodigious  irreverence.  She  was  conscious  of  an 
expectation  that  punishment  would  instantly  fall  on  this  dar- 
ing, impious  child.  But  she,  who  never  felt  these  mad,  amaz- 
ing, impulses,  could  nevertheless  only  smile  fearfully. 

"Sophia!"  she  breathed,  with  an  intensity  of  alarm  that 
merged  into  condoning  admiration.  "Whatever  will  you  do 
next?" 

Sophia's  lovely  flushed  face  crowned  the  extraordinary  struc- 
ture like  a  blossom,  scarcely  controlling  its  laughter.  She  was 
as  tall  as  her  mother,  and  as  imperious,  as  crested,  and  proud; 
and  in  spite  of  the  pigtail,  the  girlish  semi-circular  comb,  and 
the  loose  foal-like  limbs,  she  could  support  as  well  as  her  mother 
the  majesty  of  the  gimp-embroidered  dress.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
with  all  the  challenges  of  the  untried  virgin  as  she  minced  about 
the  showroom.  Abounding  life  inspired  her  movements.  The 
confident  and  fierce  joy  of  youth  shone  on  her  brow.  "What 
thing  on  earth  equals  me?"  she  seemed  to  demand  with  enchant- 
ing and  yet  ruthless  arrogance.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
respected,  bedridden  draper  in  an  insignificant  town,  lost  in  the 
central  labyrinth  of  England,  if  you  like;  yet  what  manner 
of  man,  confronted  with  her,  would  or  could  have  denied  her 
nai've  claim  to  dominion?  She  stood,  in  her  mother's  hoops, 
for  the  desire  of  the  world.  And  in  the  innocence  of  her  soul 
she  knew  it!  The  heart  of  a  young  girl  mysteriously  speaks  and 
tells  her  of  her  power  long  ere  she  can  use  her  power.  If  she  can 


3o2  THE  BAINES  SISTERS 

find  nothing  else  to  subdue,  you  may  catch  her  in  the  early 
years  subduing  a  gate-post  or  drawing  homage  from  an  empty 
chair.  Sophia's  experimental  victim  was  Constance,  with 
suspended  needle  and  soft  glance  that  shot  out  from  the  lowered 
face. 

Then  Sophia  fell,  in  stepping  backwards;  the  pyramid  was 
overbalanced;  great  distended  rings  of  silk  trembled  and  swayed 
gigantically  on  the  floor,  and  Sophia's  small  feet  lay  like  the  feet 
of  a  doll  on  the  rim  of  the  largest  circle,  which  curved  and 
arched  above  them  like  a  cavern's  mouth.  The  abrupt  transition 
of  her  features  from  assured  pride  to  ludicrous  astonishment 
and  alarm  was  comical  enough  to  have  sent  into  wild  unchari- 
table laughter  any  creature  less  humane  than  Constance. 
But  Constance  sprang  to  her,  a  single  embodied  instinct  of 
benevolence,  with  her  snub  nose,  and  tried  to  raise  her. 

"Oh,  Sophia!"  she  cried  compassionately  —  that  voice 
seemed  not  to  know  the  tones  of  reproof  —  "I  do  hope  you've 
not  messed  it,  because  mother  would  be  so " 

The  words  were  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  groans  beyond 
the  door  leading  to  the  bedrooms.  The  groans,  indicating  direst 
physical  torment,  grew  louder.  The  two  girls  stared,  wonder- 
struck  and  afraid,  at  the  door,  Sophia  with  her  dark  head  raised, 
and  Constance  with  her  arms  round  Sophia's  waist.  The  door 
opened,  letting  in  a  much-magnified  sound  of  groans,  and  there 
entered  a  youngish,  undersized  man,  who  was  frantically  clutch- 
ing his  head  in  his  hands  and  contorting  all  the  muscles  of  his 
face.  On  perceiving  the  sculptural  group  of  two  prone,  in- 
terlocked girls,  one  enveloped  in  a  crinoline,  and  the  other  with 
a  wool-work  bunch  of  flowers  pinned  to  her  knee,  he  jumped 
back,  ceased  groaning,  arranged  his  face,  and  seriously  tried  to 
pretend  that  it  was  not  he  who  had  been  vocal  in  anguish, 
that,  indeed,  he  was  just  passing  as  a  casual,  ordinary  way- 
farer through  the  showroom  to  the  shop  below.  He  blushed 
darkly;  and  the  girls  also  blushed. 


ARNOLD   BENNETT  303 

"Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  I'm  sure!"  said  this  youngish  man  sud- 
denly; and  with  a  swift  turn  he  disappeared  whence  he  had  come. 

He  was  Mr.  Povey,  a  person  universally  esteemed,  both 
within  and  without  the  shop,  the  surrogate  of  bedridden  Mr. 
Baines,  the  unfailing  comfort  and  stand-by  of  Mrs.  Baines, 
the  fount  and  radiating  centre  of  order  and  discipline  in  the 
shop;  a  quiet,  diffident,  secretive,  tedious,  and  obstinate 
youngish  man,  absolutely  faithful,  absolutely  efficient  in  his 
sphere;  without  brilliance,  without  distinction;  perhaps  rather 
little-minded,  certainly  narrow-minded;  but  what  a  force  in 
the  shop!  The  shop  was  inconceivable  without  Mr.  Povey. 
He  was  under  twenty  and  not  out  of  his  apprenticeship  when  Mr. 
Baines  had  been  struck  down,  and  he  had  at  once  proved  his 
worth.  Of  the  assistants,  he  alone  slept  in  the  house.  His 
bedroom  was  next  to  that  of  his  employer;  there  was  a  door 
between  the  two  chambers,  and  the  two  steps  led  down  from  the 
larger  to  the  less. 

The  girls  regained  their  feet,  Sophia  with  Constance's  help. 
It  was  not  easy  to  right  a  capsized  crinoline.  They  both  began 
to  laugh  nervously,  with  a  trace  of  hysteria. 

"I  thought  he'd  gone  to  the  dentist's,"  whispered  Constance. 

Mr.  Povey's  toothache  had  been  causing  anxiety  in  the 
microcosm  for  two  days,  and  it  had  been  clearly  understood 
at  dinner  that  Thursday  morning  that  Mr.  Povey  was  to  set 
forth  to  Oulsnam  Bros.,  the  dentists  at  Hillport,  without  any 
delay.  Only  on  Thursdays  and  Sundays  did  Mr.  Povey  dine 
with  the  family.  On  other  days  he  dined  later,  by  himself, 
but  at  the  family  table,  when  Mrs.  Baines  or  one  of  the  as- 
sistants could  "relieve"  him  in  the  shop.  Before  starting  out 
to  visit  her  elder  sister  at  Axe,  Mrs.  Baines  had  insisted  to 
Mr.  Povey  that  he  had  eaten  practically  nothing  but  "slops" 
for  twenty-four  hours,  and  that  if  he  was  not  careful  she  would 
have  him  on  her  hands.  He  had  replied  in  his  quietest,  most 
sagacious,  matter-of-fact  tone  —  the  tone  that  carried  weight 


304  THE  BAINES  SISTERS 

with  all  who  heard  it  —  that  he  had  only  been  waiting  for 
Thursday  afternoon,  and  should  of  course  go  instantly  to 
Oulsnam's  and  have  the  thing  attended  to  in  a  proper  manner. 
He  had  even  added  that  persons  who  put  off  going  to  the  den- 
tist's were  simply  sowing  trouble  for  themselves. 

None  could  possibly  have  guessed  that  Mr.  Povey  was  afraid 
of  going  to  the  dentist's.  But  such  was  the  case.  He  had  not 
dared  to  set  forth.  The  paragon  of  commonsense,  pictured 
by  most  people  as  being  somehow  unliable  to  human  frailties, 
could  not  yet  screw  himself  up  to  the  point  of  ringing  a  dentist's 
door-bell. 

"He  did  look  funny,"  said  Sophia.  "I  wonder  what  he 
thought.     I  couldn't  help  laughing!" 

Constance  made  no  answer;  but  when  Sophia  had  resumed 
her  own  clothes,  and  it  was  ascertained  beyond  doubt  that  the 
new  dress  had  not  suffered,  and  Constance  herself  was  calmly 
stitching  again,  she  said,  poising  her  needle  as  she  had  poised 
it  to  watch  Sophia: 

"I  was  just  wondering  whether  something  oughtn't  to  be  done 
for  Mr.  Povey." 

"What?"  Sophia  demanded. 

"Has  he  gone  back  to  his  bedroom?" 

"Let's  go  and  listen,"  said  Sophia  the  adventuress. 

They  went,  through  the  showroom  door,  past  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  leading  to  the  second  story,  down  the  long  corridor 
broken  in  the  middle  by  two  steps  and  carpeted  with  a  narrow 
bordered  carpet  whose  parallel  lines  increased  its  apparent 
length.  They  went  on  tiptoe,  sticking  close  to  one  another. 
Mr.  Povey 's  door  was  slightly  ajar.  They  listened;  not  a 
sound. 

"Mr.  Povey!"  Constance  coughed  discreetly. 

No  reply.  It  was  Sophia  who  pushed  the  door  open.  Con- 
stance made  an  elderly  prim  plucking  gesture  at  Sophia's  bare 
arm,  but  she  followed  Sophia  gingerly  into  the  forbidden  room, 


ARNOLD   BENNETT  305 

which  was,  however,  empty.  The  bed  had  been  ruffled,  and  on 
it  lay  a  book,  "The  Harvest  of  a  Quiet  Eye." 

"Harvest  of  a  quiet  tooth!"  Sophia  whispered,  giggling  very 
low. 

"Hsh!"     Constance  put  her  lips  forward. 

From  the  next  room  came  a  regular,  muffled,  oratorical  sound 
as  though  some  one  had  begun  many  years  ago  to  address  a 
meeting  and  had  forgotten  to  leave  off  and  never  would  leave 
off.  They  were  familiar  with  the  sound,  and  they  quitted  Mr. 
Povey's  chamber  in  fear  of  disturbing  it.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment Mr.  Povey  reappeared,  this  time  in  the  drawing-room 
doorway  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  long  corridor.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  ineffectually  to  flee  from  his  tooth  as  a 
murderer  tries  to  flee  from  his  conscience. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Povey!"  said  Constance  quickly  —  for  he  had 
surprised  them  coming  out  of  his  bedroom;  "we  were  just 
looking  for  you." 

"To  see  if  we  could  do  anything  for  you,"  Sophia  added. 

"Oh  nor  thanks!"  said  Mr.  Povey. 

Then  he  began  to  come  down  the  corridor,  slowly. 

"You  haven't  been  to  the  dentist's,"  said  Constance  sym- 
pathetically. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Mr.  Povey,  as  if  Constance  was  in- 
dicating a  fact  which  had  escaped  his  attention.  "The  truth 
is,  I  thought  it  looked  like  rain,  and  if  I  'd  got  wet  —  you  see  — " 

Miserable  Mr.  Povey! 

"Yes,"  said  Constance,  "you  certainly  ought  to  keep  out 
of  draughts.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you 
went  and  sat  in  the  parlour?     There's  a  fire  there." 

"I  shall  be  all  right,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Povey.  And 
after  a  pause:   "Well,  thanks,  I  will." 

The  girls  made  way  for  him  to  pass  them  at  the  head  of  the 
twisting  stairs  which  led  down  to  the  parlour.  Constance  fol- 
lowed, and  Sophia  followed  Constance. 


306  THE  BAINES  SISTERS 

"Have  father's  chair,"  said  Constance. 

There  were  two  rocking-chairs  with  fluted  backs  covered 
by  antimacassars,  one  on  either  side  of  the  hearth.  That  to 
the  left  was  still  entitled  "father's  chair,"  though  its  owner  had 
not  sat  in  it  since  long  before  the  Crimean  war,  and  would 
never  sit  in  it  again. 

"I  think  I'd  sooner  have  the  other  one,"  said  Mr.  Povey, 
"because  it's  on  the  right  side,  you  see."  And  he  touched  his 
right  cheek. 

Having  taken  Mrs.  Baines's  chair,  he  bent  his  face  down  to 
the  fire,  seeking  comfort  from  its  warmth.  Sophia  poked  the 
fire,  whereupon  Mr.  Povey  abruptly  withdrew  his  face.  He 
then  felt  something  light  on  his  shoulders.  Constance  had 
taken  the  antimacassar  from  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  pro- 
tected him  with  it  from  the  draughts.  He  did  not  instantly 
rebel,  and  therefore  was  permanently  barred  from  rebellion.  He 
was  entrapped  by  the  antimacassar.  It  formally  constituted 
him  an  invalid,  and  Constance  and  Sophia  his  nurses.  Con- 
stance drew  the  curtain  across  the  street  door.  No  draught 
could  come  from  the  window,  for  the  window  was  not  "made 
to  open."  The  age  of  ventilation  had  not  arrived.  Sophia 
shut  the  other  two  doors.  And,  each  near  a  door,  the  girls 
gazed  at  Mr.  Povey  behind  his  back,  irresolute,  but  filled  with  a 
delicious  sense  of  responsibility. 

The  situation  was  on  a  different  plane  now.  The  serious- 
ness of  Mr.  Povey's  toothache,  which  became  more  and  more 
manifest,  had  already  wiped  out  the  ludicrous  memory  of  the 
encounter  in  the  showroom.  Looking  at  these  two  big  girls, 
with  their  short-sleeved  black  frocks  and  black  aprons,  and  their 
smooth  hair,  and  their  composed  serious  faces,  one  would  have 
judged  them  incapable  of  the  least  lapse  from  an  archangelic 
primness;  Sophia  especially  presented  a  marvellous  imitation  of 
saintly  innocence.  As  for  the  toothache,  its  action  on  Mr. 
Povey  was  apparently  periodic;    it  gathered  to  a  crisis  like  a 


ARNOLD  BENNETT  307 

wave,  gradually,  the  torture  increasing  till  the  wave  broke  and 
left  Mr.  Povey  exhausted,  but  free  for  a  moment  from  pain. 
These  crises  recurred  about  once  a  minute.  And  now,  accus- 
tomed to  the  presence  of  the  young  virgins,  and  having  tacitly 
acknowledged  by  his  acceptance  of  the  antimacassar  that  his 
state  was  abnormal,  he  gave  himself  up  frankly  to  affliction. 
He  concealed  nothing  of  his  agony,  which  was  fully  displayed 
by  sudden  contortions  of  his  frame,  and  frantic  oscillations  of 
the  rocking-chair.  Presently,  as  he  lay  back  enfeebled  in  the 
wash  of  a  spent  wave,  he  murmured  with  a  sick  man's  voice: 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  got  any  laudanum?" 

The  girls  started  into  life.     "Laudanum,  Mr.  Povey?" 

"Yes,  to  hold  in  my  mouth." 

He  sat  up,  tense;  another  wave  was  forming.  The  excellent 
fellow  was  lost  to  all  self-respect,  all  decency. 

"There's  sure  to  be  some  in  mother's  cupboard,"  said 
Sophia. 

Constance,  who  bore  Mrs.  Baines's  bunch  of  keys  at  her 
girdle,  a  solemn  trust,  moved  a  little  fearfully  to  a  corner  cup- 
board which  was  hung  in  the  angle  to  the  right  of  the  projecting 
fireplace,  over  a  shelf  on  which  stood  a  large  copper  tea-urn. 
That  corner  cupboard,  of  oak  inlaid  with  maple  and  ebony 
in  a  simple  border  pattern,  was  typical  of  the  room.  It  was 
of  a  piece  with  the  deep  green  "flock"  wall  paper,  and  the 
tea-urn,  and  the  rocking-chairs  with  their  antimacassars,  and 
the  harmonium  in  rosewood  with  a  Chinese  paper-mache  tea- 
caddy  on  the  top  of  it;  even  with  the  carpet,  certainly  the 
most  curious  parlour  carpet  that  ever  was,  being  made  of  lengths 
of  the  stair-carpet  sewn  together  side  by  side.  That  corner  cup- 
board was  already  old  in  service;  it  had  held  the  medicines  of 
generations.  It  gleamed  darkly  with  the  grave  and  genuine 
polish  which  comes  from  ancient  use  alone.  The  key  which 
Constance  chose  from  her  bunch  was  like  the  cupboard,  smooth 
and  shining  with  years;    it  fitted  and  turned  very  easily,  yet 


3o8  THE  BAINES  SISTERS 

with  a  firm  snap.  The  single  wide  door  opened  sedately  as  a 
portal. 

The  girls  examined  the  sacred  interior,  which  had  the  air 
of  being  inhabited  by  an  army  of  diminutive  prisoners,  each 
crying  aloud  with  the  full  strength  of  its  label  to  be  set  free 
on  a  mission. 

"There  it  is!"  said  Sophia  eagerly. 

And  there  it  was:  a  blue  bottle,  with  a  saffron  label,  "  Caution. 
POISON.  Laudanum.  Charles  Critchlow,  M.P.S.  Dispens- 
ing Chemist.     St.  Luke's  Square,  Bursley." 

Those  large  capitals  frightened  the  girls.  Constance  took 
the  bottle  as  she  might  have  taken  a  loaded  revolver,  and  she 
glanced  at  Sophia.  Their  omnipotent,  all-wise  mother  was  not 
present  to  tell  them  what  to  do.  They,  who  had  never  decided, 
had  to  decide  now.  And  Constance  was  the  elder.  Must  this 
fearsome  stuff,  whose  very  name  was  a  name  of  fear,  be  intro- 
duced in  spite  of  printed  warnings  into  Mr.  Povey's  mouth? 
The  responsibility  was  terrifying. 

"Perhaps  I'd  just  better  ask  Mr.  Critchlow,"  Constance 
faltered. 

The  expectation  of  beneficent  laudanum  had  enlivened  Mr. 
Povey,  had  already,  indeed,  by  a  sort  of  suggestion,  half  cured 
his  toothache. 

"Oh  no!"  he  said.  "No  need  to  ask  Mr.  Critchlow  .  .  . 
Two  or  three  drops  in  a  little  water."  He  showed  impatience 
to  be  at  the  laudanum. 

The  girls  knew  that  an  antipathy  existed  between  the  chemist 
and  Mr.  Povey. 

"It's  sure  to  be  all  right,"  said  Sophia.     "I'll  get  the  water." 

With  youthful  cries  and  alarms  they  succeeded  in  pouring 
four  mortal  dark  drops  (one  more  than  Constance  intended) 
into  a  cup  containing  a  little  water.  And  as  they  handed  the 
cup  to  Mr.  Povey  their  faces  were  the  faces  of  affrighted  comical 
conspirators.     They  felt  so  old  and  they  looked  so  young. 


ARNOLD  BENNETT  309 

Mr.  Povey  imbibed  eagerly  of  the  potion,  put  the  cup  on 
the  mantlepiece,  and  then  tilted  his  head  to  the  right  so  as  to 
submerge  the  affected  tooth.  In  this  posture  he  remained, 
awaiting  the  sweet  influence  of  the  remedy.  The  girls,  out  of  a 
nice  modesty,  turned  away,  for  Mr.  Povey  must  not  swallow  the 
medicine,  and  they  preferred  to  leave  him  unhampered  in  the 
solution  of  a  delicate  problem.  When  next  they  examined  him, 
he  was  leaning  back  in  the  rocking-chair  with  his  mouth  open 
and  his  eyes  shut. 

"Has  it  done  you  any  good,  Mr.  Povey?" 

"I  think  I'll  lie  down  on  the  sofa  for  a  minute,"  was  Mr. 
Povey 's  strange  reply;  and  forthwith  he  sprang  up  and  flung 
himself  on  to  the  horse-hair  sofa  between  the  fireplace  and  the 
window,  where  he  lay  stripped  of  all  his  dignity,  a  mere  beaten 
animal  in  a  grey  suit  with  peculiar  coat-tails,  and  a  very  creased 
waistcoat,  and  a  lapel  that  was  planted  with  pins,  and  a  paper 
collar  and  close-fitting  paper  cuffs. 

Constance  ran  after  him  with  the  antimacassar,  which  she 
spread  softly  on  his  shoulders;  and  Sophia  put  another  one 
over  his  thin  little  legs,  all  drawn  up. 

They  then  gazed  at  their  handiwork,  with  secret  self-accus- 
ations and  the  most  dreadful  misgivings. 

"He  surely  never  swallowed  it!"  Constance  whispered. 

"He's  asleep,  anyhow,"  said  Sophia,  more  loudly. 

Mr.  Povey  was  certainly  asleep,  and  his  mouth  was  very 
wide  open  —  like  a  shop-door.  The  only  question  was  whether 
his  sleep  was  not  an  eternal  sleep ;  the  only  question  was  whether 
he  was  not  out  of  his  pain  for  ever. 

Then  he  snored  —  horribly;  his  snore  seemed  a  portent  of 
disaster. 

Sophia  approached  him  as  though  he  were  a  bomb,  and 
stared,  growing  bolder,  into  his  mouth. 

"Oh,  Con,"  she  summoned  her  sister,  "do  come  and  look! 
It's  too  droll!" 


310  THE  BAINES  SISTERS 

In  an  instant  all  their  four  eyes  were  exploring  the  singular 
landscape  of  Mr.  Povey's  mouth.  In  a  corner,  to  the  right  of 
that  interior,  was  one  sizeable  fragment  of  a  tooth,  that  was 
attached  to  Mr.  Povey  by  the  slenderest  tie,  so  that  at  each 
respiration  of  Mr.  Povey,  when  his  body  slightly  heaved  and 
the  gale  moaned  in  the  cavern,  this  tooth  moved  separately, 
showing  that  its  long  connection  with  Mr.  Povey  was  drawing 
to  a  close. 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Sophia,  pointing.  "And  it's  as  loose 
as  anything.     Did  you  ever  see  such  a  funny  thing?" 

The  extreme  funniness  of  the  thing  had  lulled  in  Sophia  the 
fear  of  Mr.  Povey's  sudden  death. 

"I'll  see  how  much  he's  taken,"  said  Constance,  preoccu- 
pied, going  to  the  mantelpiece. 

"Why,  I  do  believe  —  "  Sophia  began,  and  then  stopped, 
glancing  at  the  sewing-machine,  which  stood  next  to  the  sofa. 

It  was  a  Howe  sewing-machine.  It  had  a  little  tool-drawer, 
and  in  the  tool-drawer  was  a  small  pair  of  pliers.  Constance, 
engaged  in  sniffing  at  the  lees  of  the  potion  in  order  to  estimate 
its  probable  deadliness,  heard  the  well-known  click  of  the 
little  tool-drawer,  and  then  she  saw  Sophia  nearing  Mr.  Povey's 
mouth  with  the  pliers. 

"Sophia!"  she  exclaimed,  aghast.  "What  in  the  name  of 
goodness  are  you  doing?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Sophia. 

The  next  instant  Mr.  Povey  sprang  up  out  of  his  laudanum 
dream. 

"It  jumps!"  he  muttered;  and,  after  a  reflective  pause,  "but 
it's  much  better."     He  had  at  any  rate  escaped  death. 

Sophia's  right  hand  was  behind  her  back. 

Just  then  a  hawker  passed  down  King  Street,  crying  mussels 
and  cockles. 

"Oh!"  Sophia  almost  shrieked.  "Do  let's  have  mussels  and 
cockles  for  tea!"    And  she  rushed  to  the  door,  and  unlocked 


ARNOLD   BENNETT  311 

and  opened  it,  regardless  of  the  risk  of  draughts  to  Mr. 
Povey. 

In  those  days  people  often  depended  upon  the  caprices  of 
hawkers  for  the  tastiness  of  their  teas;  but  it  was  an  adventurous 
age,  when  errant  knights  of  commerce  were  numerous  and  enter- 
prising. You  went  on  to  your  doorstep,  caught  your  meal 
as  it  passed,  withdrew,  cooked  it  and  ate  it,  quite  in  the  manner 
of  the  early  Briton. 

Constance  was  obliged  to  join  her  sister  on  the  top  step. 
Sophia  descended  to  the  second  step. 

"Fresh  mussels  and  cockles  all  alive  oh!"  bawled  the  hawker, 
looking  across  the  road  in  the  April  breeze.  He  was  the  cele- 
brated Hollins,  a  professional  Irish  drunkard,  aged  in  inquity, 
who  cheerfully  saluted  magistrates  in  the  street,  and  referred 
to  the  workhouse,  which  he  occasionally  visited,  as  the  Bastile. 

Sophia  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  you  silly  thing?"  Constance  de- 
manded. 

Sophia  surreptitiously  showed  the  pliers,  which  she  had  partly 
thrust  into  her  pocket.  Between  their  points  was  a  most  per- 
ceptible, and  even  recognizable,  fragment  of  Mr.  Povey. 

This  was  the  crown  of  Sophia's  career  as  a  perpetrator  of  the 
unutterable. 

"What!"  Constance's  face  showed  the  final  contortions  of 
that  horrified  incredulity  which  is  forced  to  believe. 

Sophia  nudged  her  violently  to  remind  her  that  they  were  in 
the  street,  and  also  quite  close  to  Mr.  Povey. 

"Now,  my  little  missies,"  said  the  vile  Hollins.  "Three 
pence  a  pint,  and  how's  your  honored  mother  to-day?  Yes, 
fresh,  so  help  me  God!" 


XXIV.  ANNIXTER1 

Frank  Norms 

[/This  selection  first  gives  a  sketch  of  Buck  Annixter,  the  chief  person  in 
Frank  Norris's  novel,  and  then  proceeds  to  a  point  some  fifty  pages  on  in  the 
story  where  Annixter  acts  in  character.  Presley,  who  plays  the  role  of  observer 
in  the  tale,  is  merely  making  a  casual  call  on  Annixter,  but  his  presence  on  the 
stage  during  the  character  sketch  somewhat  relieves  its  formality.  Annixter  is  a 
violently  one-sided  person.  All  his  experience  has  served  to  warp  rather  than  to 
develop  him.  He  is  indeed  such  an  extreme  "case,"  that  without  this  detailed 
character  sketch  the  crucial  incident  of  the  second  part  of  our  selection  would  hardly 
appear  plausible.]] 


When  Presley  reached  Annixter's  ranch  house,  he  found 
young  Annixter  himself  stretched  in  his  hammock  behind  the 
mosquito-bar  on  the  front  porch,  reading  David  Copperfield 
and  gorging  himself  with  dried  prunes. 

Annixter  —  after  the  two  had  exchanged  greetings  —  com- 
plained of  terrific  colics  all  the  preceding  night.  His  stomach 
was  out  of  whack,  but  you  bet  he  knew  how  to  take  care  of  him- 
self; the  last  spell,  he  had  consulted  a  doctor  at  Bonneville, 
a  gibbering  busy-face  who  had  filled  him  up  to  the  neck  with 
a  dose  of  some  hog- wash  stuff  that  had  made  him  worse  —  a 
healthy  lot  the  doctors  knew,  anyhow.  His  case  was  peculiar. 
He  knew;   prunes  were  what  he  needed,  and  by  the  pound. 

Annixter,  who  worked  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch  —  some  four 
thousand  acres  of  rich  clay  and  heavy  loams  —  was  a  very 
young  man,  younger  even  than  Presley,  like  him  a  college  gradu- 
ate. He  looked  never  a  year  older  than  he  was.  He  was 
smooth-shaven  and  lean  built.  But  his  youthful  appearance 
was  offset  by  a  certain  male  cast  of  countenance,  the  lower  lip 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Octopus  with  the  kind  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page 
and  Company. 


FRANK  NORRIS  313 

thrust  out,  the  chin  large  and  deeply  cleft.  His  university  course 
had  hardened  rather  than  polished  him.  He  still  remained  one 
of  the  people,  rough  almost  to  insolence,  direct  in  speech, 
intolerant  in  his  opinions,  relying  upon  absolutely  no  one  but 
himself;  yet,  with  all  this,  of  an  astonishing  degree  of  intel- 
ligence,»and  possessed  of  an  executive  ability  little  short  of  posi- 
tive genius.  He  was  a  ferocious  worker,  allowing  himself  no 
pleasures,  and  exacting  the  same  degree  of  energy  from  all  his 
subordinates.  He'  was  widely  hated,  and  as  widely  trusted. 
Every  one  spoke  of  his  crusty  temper  and  bullying  disposition, 
invariably  qualifying  the  statement  with  a  commendation  of 
his  resources  and  capabilities.  The  devil  of  a  driver,  a  hard 
man  to  get  along  with,  obstinate,  contrary,  cantankerous ; 
but  brains!  No  doubt  of  that;  brains  to  his  boots.  One  would 
like  to  see  the  man  who  could  get  ahead  of  him  on  a  deal.  Twice 
he  had  been  shot  at,  once  from  ambush  on  Osterman's  ranch, 
and  once  by  one  of  his  own  men  whom  he  had  kicked  from  the 
sacking  platform  of  his  harvester  for  gross  negligence.  At 
college,  he  had  specialized  on  finance,  political  economy,  and 
scientific  agriculture.  After  his  graduation  (he  stood  almost 
at  the  very  top  of  his  class)  he  had  returned  and  obtained  the 
degree  of  civil  engineer.  Then  suddenly  he  had  taken  a  notion 
that  a  practical  knowledge  of  law  was  indispensable  to  a  modern 
farmer.  In  eight  months  he  did  the  work  of  three  years,  study- 
ing for  his  bar  examinations.  His  method  of  study  was  char- 
acteristic. He  reduced  all  the  material  of  his  text-books  to 
notes.  Tearing  out  the  leaves  of  these  note-books,  he  pasted 
them  upon  the  walls  of  his  room;  then,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
a  cheap  cigar  in  his  teeth,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  walked 
around  and  around  the  room,  scowling  fiercely  at  his  notes, 
memorizing,  devouring,  digesting.  At  intervals,  he  drank 
great  cupfuls  of  unsweetened,  black  coffee.  When  the  bar 
examinations  were  held,  he  was  admitted  at  the  very  head  of 
all  the  applicants,  and  was  complimented  by  the  judge.    Im* 


3  H  ANNIXTER 

mediately  afterwards  he  collapsed  with  nervous  prostration; 
his  stomach  "got  out  of  whack,"  and  he  all  but  died  in  a  Sacra- 
mento boarding-house,  obstinately  refusing  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  doctors,  whom  he  vituperated  as  a  rabble  of  quacks, 
dosing  himself  with  a  patent  medicine  and  stuffing  himself  almost 
to  bursting  with  liver  pills  and  dried  prunes. 

He  had  taken  a  trip  to  Europe  after  this  sickness  to  put 
himself  completely  to  rights.  He  intended  to  be  gone  a  year, 
but  returned  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  fulminating  abuse  of 
European  cooking.  Nearly  his  entire  time  had  been  spent  in 
Paris;  but  of  this  sojourn  he  had  brought  back  but  two  sou- 
venirs, an  electro-plated  bill-hook  and  an  empty  bird  cage 
which  had  tickled  his  fancy  immensely. 

He  was  wealthy.  Only  a  year  previous  to  this  his  father  — 
a  widower,  who  had  amassed  a  fortune  in  land  speculation  — 
had  died,  and  Annixter,  the  only  son,  had  come  into  the  inheri- 
tance. 

For  Presley,  Annixter  professed  a  great  admiration,  holding 
in  deep  respect  the  man  who  could  rhyme  words,  deferring  to 
him  whenever  there  was  question  of  literature  or  works  of 
fiction.  No  doubt  there  was  not  much  use  in  poetry,  and  as 
for  novels,  to  his  mind  there  were  only  Dickens's  works.  Every- 
thing else  was  a  lot  of  lies.  But  just  the  same,  it  took  brains 
to  grind  out  a  poem.  It  wasn't  every  one  who  could  rhyme 
"brave"  and  "glaive,"  and  make  sense  out  of  it.     Sure  not. 

But  Presley's  case  was  a  notable  exception.  On  no  occasion 
was  Annixter  prepared  to  accept  another  man's  opinion  without 
reserve.  In  conversation  with  him  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  make  any  direct  statement,  however  trivial,  that  he  would 
accept  without  either  modification  or  open  contradiction. 
He  had  a  passion  for  violent  discussion.  He  would  argue  upon 
every  subject  in  the  range  of  human  knowledge,  from  astronomy 
to  the  tariff,  from  the  doctrine  of  predestination  to  the  height 
of  a  horse.    Never  would  he  admit  himself  to  be  mistaken; 


FRANK  NORRIS  315 

when  cornered,  he  would  intrench  himself  behind  the  remark, 
"Yes,  that's  all  very  well.  In  some  ways,  it  is,  and  then,  again, 
in  some  ways,  it  isn't." 

Singularly  enough,  he  and  Presley  were  the  best  of  friends. 
More  than  once,  Presley  marvelled  at  this  state  of  affairs,  telling 
himself  that  he  and  Annixter  had  nothing  in  common.  In  all 
his  circle  of  acquaintances,  Presley  was  the  one  man  with  whom 
Annixter  had  never  quarrelled.  The  two  men  were  diametrically 
opposed  in  temperament.  Presley  was  easy-going;  Annixter, 
alert.  Presley  was  a  confirmed  dreamer,  irresolute,  inactive, 
with  a  strong  tendency  to  melancholy;  the  young  farmer  was 
a  man  of  affairs,  decisive,  combative,  whose  only  reflection 
upon  his  interior  economy  was  a  morbid  concern  in  the  vagaries 
of  his  stomach.  Yet  the  two  never  met  without  a  mutual  pleas- 
ure, taking  a  genuine  interest  in  each  other's  affairs,  and  often 
putting  themselves  to  great  inconvenience  to  be  of  trifling  service 
to  help  one  another. 

As  a  last  characteristic,  Annixter  pretended  to  be  a  woman- 
hater,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  was  a  very  bull-calf 
of  awkwardness  in  feminine  surroundings.  Feemales!  Rot! 
There  was  a  fine  way  for  a  man  to  waste  his  time  and  his  good 
money,  lally  gagging  with  a  lot  of  feemales.  No,  thank  you; 
none  of  it  in  his,  if  you  please.  Once  only  he  had  an  affair  — 
a  timid,  little  creature  in  a  glove-cleaning  establishment  in 
Sacramento,  whom  he  had  picked  up,  Heaven  knew  how. 
After  his  return  to  his  ranch,  a  correspondence  had  been  main- 
tained between  the  two,  Annixter  taking  the  precaution  to  type- 
write his  letters,  and  never  affixing  his  signature,  in  an  excess 
of  prudence.  He  furthermore  made  carbon  copies  of  all  his 
letters,  filing  them  away  in  a  compartment  of  his  safe.  Ah, 
it  would  be  a  clever  feemale  who  would  get  him  into  a  mess. 
Then,  suddenly  smitten  with  a  panic  terror  that  he  had  com- 
mitted himself,  that  he  was  involving  himself  too  deeply,  he  had 
abruptly  sent  the  little  woman  about  her  business.     It  was 


316  ANNIXTER 

his  only  love  affair.     After  that,  he  kept  himself  free.     No 
petticoats  should  ever  have  a  hold  on  him.     Sure  not. 

[Annixter  has  trouble  on  his  ranch.  Some  of  his  sheep  break  through  the  wire 
fence  at  a  point  where  the  railroad  passes  in  a  cut.  Scores  of  the  sheep,  crowding 
into  this  cut,  are  killed  by  an  engine.  It  is  typical  of  Annixter  that  this  impersonal 
accident  should  anger  him  personally  against  the  railroad.  It  is  not  his  first  griev- 
ance against  the  railroad,  however.  For  like  other  California  ranchmen,  who  find 
themselves  at  the  mercy  of  the  railroad  (the  "octopus")  in  the  matter  of  getting 
their  produce  to  market,  he  has  already  many  grievances.  But  this  accident  plays 
as  great  a  part  in  Annixter's  imagination  as  other  more  personal  affairs.  A  group 
of  ranchmen  agree  to  meet  at  Magnus  Derrick's  ranch,  Los  Muertos,  and  discuss 
the  general  situation.  Annixter  is  invited  to  join  them.  But  meanwhile  other 
irritating  incidents  occur  which  put  his  presence  there  somewhat  in  doubt.  The 
next  passage  begins  after  the  accident  to  his  sheep  and  on  the  day  of  the  meeting 
at  Magnus  Derrick's.  It  involves  the  character  of  Hilma  Tree,  who  later  plays 
a  most  important  part  in  Annixter's  life.] 

II 

In  connection  with  his  ranch,  Annixter  ran  a  dairy  farm 
on  a  very  small  scale,  making  just  enough  butter  and  cheese 
for  the  consumption  of  the  ranch's  personnel.  Old  man  Tree, 
his  wife,  and  his  daughter  Hilma  looked  after  the  dairy.  But 
there  was  not  always  work  enough  to  keep  the  three  of  them 
occupied  and  Hilma  at  times  made  herself  useful  in  other  ways. 
As  often  as  not  she  lent  a  hand  in  the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three 
times  a  week  she  took  her  mother's  place  in  looking  after  Annix- 
ter's house,  making  the  beds,  putting  his  room  to  rights,  bringing 
his  meals  up  from  the  kitchen.  For  the  last  summer  she  had 
been  away  visiting  with  relatives  in  one  of  the  towns  on  the 
coast.  But  the  week  previous  to  this  she  had  returned  and 
Annixter  had  come  upon  her  suddenly  one  day  in  the  dairy, 
making  cheese,  the  sleeves  of  her  crisp  blue  shirt  waist  rolled 
back  to  her  very  shoulders.  Annixter  had  carried  away  with 
him  a  clear-cut  recollection  of  these  smooth  white  arms  of  hers, 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  very  round  and  cool  and  fresh.  He 
would  not  have  believed  that  a  girl  so  young  should  have  had 


FRANK  NORRIS  317 

arms  so  big  and  perfect.  To  his  surprise  he  found  himself 
thinking  of  her  after  he  had  gone  to  bed  that  night,  and  in  the 
morning  when  he  woke  he  was  bothered  to  know  whether  he  had 
dreamed  about  Hilma's  fine  white  arms  over  night.  Then 
abruptly  he  had  lost  patience  with  himself  for  being  so  occupied 
with  the  subject,  raging  and  furious  with  all  the  breed  of  fee- 
males  —  a  fine  way  for  a  man  to  waste  his  time.  He  had  had 
his  experience  with  the  timid  little  creature  in  the  glove-cleaning 
establishment  in  Sacramento.  That  was  enough.  Feemales! 
Rot!  None  of  them  in  his,  thank  you.  He  had  seen  Hilma 
Tree  give  him  a  look  in  the  dairy.  Aha,  he  saw  through  her! 
She  was  trying  to  get  a  hold  on  him,  was  she?  He  would  show 
her.  Wait  till  he  saw  her  again.  He  would  send  her  about  her 
business  in  a  hurry.  He  resolved  upon  a  terrible  demeanor 
in  the  presence  of  the  dairy  girl  —  a  great  show  of  indifference, 
a  fierce  masculine  nonchalance;  and  when,  the  next  morning, 
she  brought  him  his  breakfast,  he  had  been  smitten  dumb  as 
soon  as  she  entered  the  room,  glueing  his  eyes  upon  his  plate,  his 
elbows  close  to  his  side,  awkward,  clumsy,  overwhelmed  with 
constraint. 

While  true  to  his  convictions  as  a  woman-hater  and  genuinely 
despising  Hilma  both  as  a  girl  and  as  an  inferior,  the  idea 
of  her  worried  him.  Most  of  all,  he  was  angry  with  himself 
because  of  his  inane  sheepishness  when  she  was  about.  He  at 
first  had  told  himself  that  he  was  a  fool  not  to  be  able  to  ignore 
her  existence  as  hitherto,  and  then  that  he  was  a  greater  fool 
not  to  take  advantage  of  his  position.  Certainly  he  had  not  the 
remotest  idea  of  any  affection,  but  Hilma  was  a  fine  looking 
girl.     He  imagined  an  affair  with  her. 

As  he  reflected  upon  the  matter  now,  scowling  abstractedly 
at  the  button  of  the  electric  bell,  turning  the  whole  business  over 
in  his  mind,  he  remembered  that  to-day  was  butter-making  day 
and  that  Mrs.  Tree  would  be  occupied  in  the  dairy.  That  meant 
that  Hilma  would  take  her  place.    He  turned  to  the  mirror  of 


318  ANNIXTER 

the  sideboard,  scrutinizing  his  reflection  with  grim  disfavor. 
After  a  moment,  rubbing  the  roughened  surface  of  his  chin  the 
wrong  way,  he  muttered  to  his  image  in  the  glass: 

"What  a  mug!  Good  Lord!  what  a  looking  mug!"  Then, 
after  a  moment's  silence,  "Wonder  if  that  fool  feemale  will  be 
here  to-day." 

He  crossed  over  into  his  bedroom  and  peeped  around  the 
edge  of  the  lowered  curtain.  The  window  looked  out  upon 
the  skeleton-like  tower  of  the  artesian  well  and  the  cook-house 
and  dairy-house  close  beside  it.  As  he  watched,  he  saw  Hilma 
come  out  from  the  cook-house  and  hurry  across  toward  the  kit- 
chen. Evidently,  she  was  going  to  see  about  his  dinner.  But 
as  she  passed  by  the  artesian  well,  she  met  young  Delaney,  one 
of  Annixter's  hands,  coming  up  the  trail  by  the  irrigating  ditch, 
leading  his  horse  toward  the  stables,  a  great  coil  of  barbed 
wire  in  his  gloved  hands  and  a  pair  of  nippers  thrust  into  his 
belt.  No  doubt,  he  had  been  mending  the  break  in  the  line 
fence  by  the  Long  Trestle.  Annixter  saw  him  take  off  his  wide- 
brimmed  hat  as  he  met  Hilma,  and  the  two  stood  there  for  some 
moments  talking  together.  Annixter  even  heard  Hilma  laughing 
very  gayly  at  something  Delaney  was  saying.  She  patted  his 
horse's  neck  affectionately,  and  Delaney,  drawing  the  nippers 
from  his  belt,  made  as  if  to  pinch  her  arm  with  them.  She 
caught  at  his  wrist  and  pushed  him  away,  laughing  again. 
To  Annixter's  mind  the  pair  seemed  astonishingly  intimate. 
Brusquely  his  anger  flamed  up. 

Ah,  that  was  it,  was  it?  Delaney  and  Hilma  had  an  under- 
standing between  themselves.  They  carried  on  their  affairs 
right  out  there  in  the  open,  under  his  very  eyes.  It  was  abso- 
lutely disgusting.  Had  they  no  sense  of  decency,  those  two? 
Well,  this  ended  it.  He  would  stop  that  sort  of  thing  short  off; 
none  of  that  on  his  ranch  if  he  knew  it.  No,  sir.  He  would 
pack  that  girl  off  before  he  was  a  day  older.  He  wouldn't 
have  that  kind  about  the  place.    Not  much!    She'd  have  to 


FRANK  NORRIS  319 

get  out.  He  would  talk  to  old  man  Tree  about  it  this  afternoon. 
Whatever  happened,  he  insisted  upon  morality. 

"And  my  dinner!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "I've  got  to 
wait  and  go  hungry  —  and  maybe  get  sick  again  —  while  they 
carry  on  their  disgusting  love-making." 

He  turned  about  on  the  instant,  and  striding  over  to  the 
electric  bell,  rang  it  again  with  all  his  might. 

"When  that  feemale  gets  up  here,"  he  declared,  "I'll  just 
find  out  why  I've  got  to  wait  like  this.  I'll  take  her  down, 
to  the  Queen's  taste.  I'm  lenient  enough,  Lord  knows,  but  I 
don't  propose  to  be  imposed  upon  all  the  time." 

A  few  moments  later,  while  Annixter  was  pretending  to  read 
the  county  newspaper  by  the  window  in  the  dining-room,  Hilma 
came  in  to  set  the  table.  At  the  time  Annixter  had  his  feet 
cocked  on  the  window  ledge  and  was  smoking  a  cigar,  but  as 
soon  as  she  entered  the  room  he  —  without  premeditation  — 
brought  his  feet  down  to  the  floor  and  crushed  out  the  lighted 
tip  of  his  cigar  under  the  window  ledge.  Over  the  top  of  the 
paper  he  glanced  at  her  covertly  from  time  to  time. 

Though  Hilma  was  only  nineteen  years  old,  she  was  a  large 
girl  with  all  the  development  of  a  much  older  woman.  There 
was  a  certain  generous  amplitude  to  the  full,  round  curves  of 
her  hips  and  shoulders  that  suggested  the  precocious  maturity 
of  a  healthy,  vigorous  animal  life  passed  under  the  hot  southern 
sun  of  a  half-tropical  country.  She  was,  one  knew  at  a  glance, 
warm-blooded,  full-blooded,  with  an  even,  comfortable  balance 
of  temperament.  Her  neck  was  thick,  and  sloped  to  her  shoul- 
ders, with  full,  beautiful  curves,  and  under  her  chin  and  under 
her  ears  the  flesh  was  as  white  and  smooth  as  floss  satin,  shading 
exquisitely  to  a  faint  delicate  brown  on  her  nape  at  the  roots  of 
her  hair.  Her  throat  rounded  to  meet  her  chin  and  cheek,  with 
a  soft  swell  of  the  skin,  tinted  pale  amber  in  the  shadows,  but 
blending  by  barely  perceptible  gradations  to  the  sweet,  warm 
flush  of  her  cheek.   This  color  on  her  temples  was  just  touched 


320  ANNIXTER 

with  a  certain  blueness  where  the  flesh  was  thin  over  the  fine 
veining  underneath.  Her  eyes  were  light  brown,  and  so  wide 
open  that  on  the  slightest  provocation  the  full  disc  of  the  pupil 
was  disclosed;  the  lids  —  just  a  fraction  of  a  shade  darker  than 
the  hue  of  her  face  —  were  edged  with  lashes  that  were  almost 
black.  While  these  lashes  were  not  long,  they  were  thick  and 
rimmed  her  eyes  with  a  fine,  thin  line.  Her  mouth  was  rather 
large,  the  lips  shut  tight,  and  nothing  could  have  been  more 
graceful,  more  charming  than  the  outline  of  these  full  lips  of 
hers,  and  her  round  white  chin,  modulating  downward  with  a 
certain  delicious  roundness  to  her  neck,  her  throat  and  the 
sweet  feminine  amplitude  of  her  breast.  The  slightest  move- 
ment of  her  head  and  shoulders  sent  a  gentle  undulation  through 
all  this  beauty  of  soft  outlines  and  smooth  surfaces,  the  delicate 
amber  shadows  deepening  or  fading  or  losing  themselves  imper- 
ceptibly in  the  pretty  rose-color  of  her  cheeks,  or  the  dark, 
warm-tinted  shadow  of  her  thick  brown  hair. 

Her  hair  seemed  almost  to  have  a  life  of  its  own,  almost 
Medusa-like,  thick,  glossy  and  moist,  lying  in  heavy,  sweet- 
smelling  masses  over  her  forehead,  over  her  small  ears  with  their 
pink  lobes,  and  far  down  upon  her  nape.  Deep  in  between  the 
coils  and  braids  it  was  of  a  bitumen  brownness,  but  in  the  sun- 
light it  vibrated  with  a  sheen  like  tarnished  gold. 

Like  most  large  girls,  her  movements  were  not  hurried, 
and  this  indefinite  deliberateness  of  gesture,  this  slow  grace,  this 
certain  ease  of  attitude,  was  a  charm  that  was  all  her  own. 

But  Hilma's  greatest  charm  of  all  was  her  simplicity  —  a 
simplicity  that  was  not  only  in  the  calm  regularity  of  her  face, 
with  its  statuesque  evenness  of  contour,  its  broad  surface  of 
cheek  and  forehead  and  the  masses  of  her  straight  smooth  hair, 
but  was  apparent  as  well  in  the  long  line  of  her  carriage,  from 
her  foot  to  her  waist  and  the  single  deep  swell  from  her  waist 
to  her  shoulder.  Almost  unconsciously  she  dressed  in  harmony 
with  this  note  of  simplicity,  and  on  this  occasion  wore  a  skirt 


FRANK  NORRIS  321 

of  plain  dark  blue  calico  and  a  white  shirt  waist  crisp  from  the 
laundry. 

And  yet,  for  all  the  dignity  of  this  rigorous  simplicity,  there 
were  about  Hilma  small  contradictory  suggestions  of  feminine 
daintiness,  charming  beyond  words.  Even  Annixter  could  not 
help  noticing  that  her  feet  were  narrow  and  slender,  and  that 
the  little  steel  buckles  of  her  low  shoes  were  polished  bright,  and 
that  her  finger-tips  and  nails  were  of  a  fine  rosy  pink. 

He  found  himself  wondering  how  it  was  that  a  girl  in  Hilma's 
position  should  be  able  to  keep  herself  so  pretty,  so  trim,  so 
clean  and  feminine,  but  he  reflected  that  her  work  was  chiefly 
in  the  dairy,  and  even  there  of  the  lightest  order.  She  was  on 
the  ranch  more  for  the  sake  of  being  with  her  parents  than  from 
any  necessity  of  employment.  Vaguely  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand that,  in  that  great  new  land  of  the  West,  in  the  open-air, 
healthy  life  of  the  ranches,  where  the  conditions  of  earning  a 
livelihood  were  of  the  easiest,  refinement  among  the  younger 
women  was  easily  to  be  found  —  not  the  refinement  of  education, 
nor  culture,  but  the  natural,  intuitive  refinement  of  the  woman, 
not  as  yet  defiled  and  crushed  out  by  the  sordid,  strenuous 
life-struggle  of  over-populated  districts.  It  was  the  original, 
intended,  and  natural  delicacy  of  an  elemental  existence,  close 
to  nature,  close  to  life,  close  to  the  great,  kindly  earth. 

As  Hilma  laid  the  table-spread,  her  arms  opened  to  their 
widest  reach,  the  white  cloth  setting  a  little  glisten  of  reflected 
light  underneath  the  chin,  Annixter  stirred  in  his  place  uneasily. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Miss  Hilma?"  he  remarked,  for  the  sake 
of  saying  something.     "Good-morning.     How  do  you  do?" 

"  Goo d-morning,  sir,"  she  answered,  looking  up,  resting  for 
a  moment  on  her  outspread  palms.     "I  hope  you  are  better." 

Her  voice  was  low  in  pitch  and  of  a  velvety  huskiness,  seeming 
to  come  more  from  her  chest  than  from  her  throat. 

"Well,  I'm  some  better,"  growled  Annixter.  Then  suddenly 
he  demanded,  "Where's  that  dog?" 


322  ANNIXTER 

A  decrepit  Irish  setter  sometimes  made  his  appearance  in  and 
about  the  ranch  house,  sleeping  under  the  bed  and  eating  when 
anyone  about  the  place  thought  to  give  him  a  plate  of  bread. 

Annixter  had  no  particular  interest  in  the  dog.  For  weeks 
at  a  time  he  ignored  its  existence.  It  was  not  his  dog.  But 
to-day  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  let  the  subject  rest.  For  no 
reason  that  he  could  explain  even  to  himself,  he  recurred  to  it 
continually.  He  questioned  Hilma  minutely  all  about  the  dog. 
Who  owned  him?  How  old  did  she  think  he  was?  Did  she 
imagine  the  dog  was  sick?  Where  had  he  got  to?  Maybe  he 
had  crawled  off  to  die  somewhere.  He  recurred  to  the  subject 
all  through  the  meal;  apparently,  he  could  talk  of  nothing  else, 
and  as  she  finally  went  away  after  clearing  off  the  table,  he 
went  onto  the  porch  and  called  after  her: 

"Say,  Miss  Hilma." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"If  that  dog  turns  up  again  you  let  me  know." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Annixter  returned  to  the  dining-room  and  sat  down  in  the 
chair  he  had  just  vacated. 

"To  hell  with  the  dog!"  he  muttered,  enraged,  he  could  not 
tell  why. 

When  at  length  he  allowed  his  attention  to  wander  from 
Hilma  Tree,  he  found  that  he  had  been  staring  fixedly  at  a 
thermometer  upon  the  wall  opposite,  and  this  made  him  think 
that  it  had  long  been  his  intention  to  buy  a  fine  barometer, 
an  instrument  that  could  be  accurately  depended  on.  But  the 
barometer  suggested  the  present  condition  of  the  weather  and 
the  likelihood  of  rain.  In  such  case,  much  was  to  be  done  in 
the  way  of  getting  the  seed  ready  and  overhauling  his  ploughs 
and  drills.  He  had  not  been  away  from  the  house  in  two  days. 
It  was  time  to  be  up  and  doing.  He  determined  to  put  in  the 
afternoon  "taking  a  look  around,"  and  have  a  late  supper. 
He  would  not  go  to  Los  Muertos;    he  would  ignore  Magnus 


FRANK  NORRIS  323 

Derrick's  invitation.  Possibly,  though,  it  might  be  well  to  run 
over  and  see  what  was  up. 

"If  I  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I'll  ride  the  buckskin." 

The  buckskin  was  a  half-broken  broncho  that  fought  like 
a  fiend  under  the  saddle  until  the  quirt  and  spur  brought  her 
to  her  senses.  But  Annixter  remembered  that  the  Trees' 
cottage,  next  the  dairy-house,  looked  out  upon  the  stables,  and 
perhaps  Hilma  would  see  him  while  he  was  mounting  the  horse 
and  be  impressed  with  his  courage. 

"Huh!"  grunted  Annixter  under  his  breath,  "I  should  like 
to  see  that  fool  Delaney  try  to  bust  that  bronch.  That's 
what  I'd  like  to  see." 

However,  as  Annixter  stepped  from  the  porch  of  the  ranch 
house,  he  was  surprised  to  notice  a  grey  haze  over  all  the  sky; 
the  sunlight  was  gone;  there  was  a  sense  of  coolness  in  the  air; 
the  weather-vane  on  the  barn  —  a  fine  golden  trotting  horse 
with  flamboyant  mane  and  tail  —  was  veering  in  a  southwest 
wind.     Evidently  the  expected  rain  was  close  at  hand. 

Annixter  crossed  over  to  the  stables  reflecting  that  he  could 
ride  the  buckskin  to  the  Trees'  cottage  and  tell  Hilma  that  he 
would  not  be  home  to  supper.  The  conference  at  Los  Muertos 
would  be  an  admirable  excuse  for  this,  and  upon  the  spot  he 
resolved  to  go  over  to  the  Derrick  ranch  house,  after  all. 

As  he  passed  the  Trees'  cottage,  he  observed  with  satis- 
faction that  Hilma  was  going  to  and  fro  in  the  front  room.  If 
he  busted  the  buckskin  in  the  yard  before  the  stable  she  could 
not  help  but  see.  Annixter  found  the  stableman  in  the  back 
of  the  barn  greasing  the  axles  of  the  buggy,  and  ordered  him 
to  put  the  saddle  on  the  buckskin. 

"Why,  I  don't  think  she's  here,  sir,"  answered  the  stableman, 
glancing  into  the  stalls.  "  No,  I  remember  now.  Delaney  took 
her  out  just  after  dinner.  His  other  horse  went  lame  and  he 
wanted  to  go  down  by  the  Long  Trestle  to  mend  the  fence. 
He  started  out,  but  had  to  come  back." 


324  ANNIXTER 

"Oh,  Delaney  got  her,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  had  a  circus  with  her,  but  he  busted  her  right 
enough.  When  it  comes  to  horse,  Delaney  can  wipe  the  eye 
of  any  cow-puncher  in  the  county,  I  guess." 

"He  can,  can  he?"  observed  Annixter.  Then  after  a  silence, 
"Well,  all  right,  Billy;  put  my  saddle  on  whatever  you've  got 
here.    I'm  going  over  to  Los  Muertos  this  afternoon." 

"Want  to  look  out  for  the  rain,  Mr.  Annixter,"  remarked 
Billy.     "Guess  we'll  have  rain  before  night." 

"I'll  take  a  rubber  coat,"  answered  Annixter.  "Bring  the 
horse  up  to  the  ranch  house  when  you're  ready." 

Annixter  returned  to  the  house  to  look  for  his  rubber  coat 
in  deep  disgust,  not  permitting  himself  to  glance  toward  the 
dairy-house  and  the  Trees'  cottage.  But  as  he  reached  the 
porch  he  heard  the  telephone  ringing  his  call.  It  was  Presley, 
who  rang  up  from  Los  Muertos.  He  had  heard  from  Harran 
that  Annixter  was,  perhaps,  coming  over  that  evening.  If 
he  came,  would  he  mind  bringing  over  his  —  Presley's  — 
bicycle.  He  had  left  it  at  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch  the  day  before 
and  had  forgotten  to  come  back  that  way  for  it. 

"Well,"  objected  Annixter,  a  surly  note  in  his  voice,  "'  was 
going  to  ride  over." 

"Oh,  never  mind,  then,"  returned  Presley  easily.  "I  was 
to  blame  for  forgetting  it.  Don't  bother  about  it.  I'll  come 
over  some  of  these  days  and  get  it  myself." 

Annixter  hung  up  the  transmitter  with  a  vehement  wrench 
and  stamped  out  of  the  room,  banging  the  door.  He  found 
his  rubber  coat  hanging  in  the  hallway  and  swung  into  it  with  a 
fierce  movement  of  the  shoulders  that  all  but  started  the  seams. 
Everything  seemed  to  conspire  to  thwart  him.  It  was  just 
like  that  absent-minded  crazy  poet,  Presley,  to  forget  his  wheel. 
Well,  he  could  come  after  it  himself.  He,  Annixter,  would  ride 
some  horse,  anyhow.  When  he  came  out  upon  the  porch  he 
saw  the  wheel  leaning  against  the  fence  where  Presley  had  left 


FRANK  NORRIS  325 

it.  If  it  stayed  much  longer  the  rain  would  catch  it.  Annixter 
ripped  out  an  oath.  At  every  moment  his  ill-humor  was  in- 
creasing. Yet,  for  all  that,  he  went  back  to  the  stable,  pushing 
the  bicycle  before  him,  and  countermanded  his  order,  directing 
the  stableman  to  get  the  buggy  ready.  He  himself  carefully 
stowed  Presley's  bicycle  under  the  seat,  covering  it  with  a  couple 
of  empty  sacks  and  a  tarpaulin  carriage  cover. 

While  he  was  doing  this,  the  stableman  uttered  an  excla- 
mation and  paused  in  the  act  of  backing  the  horse  into  the  shafts, 
holding  up  a  hand,  listening. 

From  the  hollow  roof  of  the  barn  and  from  the  thick  velvet- 
like padding  of  dust  over  the  ground  outside,  and  from  among 
the  leaves  of  the  few  nearby  trees  and  plants  there  came  a  vast 
monotonous  murmur  that  seemed  to  issue  from  all  quarters  of 
the  horizon  at  once,  a  prolonged  and  subdued  rustling  sound, 
steady,  even,  persistent. 

"There's  your  rain,"  announced  the  stableman.  "The 
first  of  the  season." 

"And  I  got  to  be  out  in  it,"  fumed  Annixter,  "and  I  suppose 
those  swine  will  quit  work  on  the  big  barn  now." 

When  the  buggy  was  finally  ready,  he  put  on  his  rubber 
coat,  climbed  in,  and  without  waiting  for  the  stableman  to 
raise  the  top,  drove  out  into  the  rain,  a  new-lit  cigar  in  his 
teeth.  As  he  passed  the  dairy-house,  he  saw  Hilma  standing 
in  the  doorway,  holding  out  her  hand  to  the  rain,  her  face  turned 
upward  toward  the  grey  sky,  amused  and  interested  at  this 
first  shower  of  the  wet  season.  She  was  so  absorbed  that  she 
did  not  see  Annixter,  and  his  clumsy  nod  in  her  direction  passed 
unnoticed. 

"She  did  it  on  purpose,"  Annixter  told  himself,  chewing 
fiercely  on  his  cigar.  "Cuts  me  now,  hey?  Well,  this  does 
settle  it.     She  leaves  this  ranch  before  I'm  a  day  older." 

He  decided  that  he  would  put  off  his  tour  of  inspection 
till  the  next  day.    Travelling  in  the  buggy  as  he  did,  he  must 


326  ANNIXTER 

keep  to  the  road  which  led  to  Derrick's,  in  very  roundabout 
fashion,  by  way  of  Guadalajara.  This  rain  would  reduce  the 
thick  dust  of  the  road  to  two  feet  of  viscid  mud.  It  would  take 
him  quite  three  hours  to  reach  the  ranch  house  on  Los  Muertos. 
He  thought  of  Delaney  and  the  buckskin  and  ground  his  teeth. 
And  all  this  trouble,  if  you  please,  because  of  a  fool  feemale 
girl.  A  fine  way  for  him  to  waste  his  time.  Well,  now  he  was 
done  with  it.     His  decision  was  taken  now.     She  should  pack. 

Steadily  the  rain  increased.  There  was  no  wind.  The  thick 
veil  of  wet  descended  straight  from  sky  to  earth,  blurring 
distant  outlines,  spreading  a  vast  sheen  of  grey  over  all  the  land- 
scape. Its  volume  became  greater,  the  prolonged  murmuring 
note  took  on  a  deeper  tone.  At  the  gate  to  the  road  which  led 
across  Dyke's  hop-fields  toward  Guadalajara,  Annixter  was 
obliged  to  descend  and  raise  the  top  of  the  buggy.  In  doing 
so  he  caught  the  flesh  of  his  hand  in  the  joint  of  the  iron  elbow 
that  supported  the  top  and  pinched  it  cruelly.  It  was  the  last 
misery,  the  culmination  of  a  long  train  of  wretchedness.  On 
the  instant  he  hated  Hilma  Tree  so  fiercely  that  his  sharply 
set  teeth  all  but  bit  this  cigar  in  two. 

While  he  was  grabbing  and  wrenching  at  the  buggytop, 
the  water  from  his  hat  brim  dripping  down  upon  his  nose, 
the  horse,  restive  under  the  drench  of  the  rain,  moved  uneasily. 

"Yah-h-h  you!"  he  shouted,  inarticulate  with  exasperation. 
"  You  —  you  —  Gor-r-r,  wait  till  I  get  hold  of  you.  Whoa, 
you!" 

But  there  was  an  interruption.  Delaney,  riding  the  buck- 
skin, came  around  a  bend  in  the  road  at  a  slow  trot  and  Annixter, 
getting  into  the  buggy  again,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  him. 

"Why,  hello,  Mr.  Annixter,"  said  he,  pulling  up.  "Kind 
of  sort  of  wet,  isn't  it?" 

Annixter,  his  face  suddenly  scarlet,  sat  back  in  his  place 
abruptly,  exclaiming: 

"Oh  —  oh,  there  you  are,  are  you?" 


FRANK  NORRIS  327 

"I've  been  down  there,"  explained  Delaney,  with  a  motion 
of  his  head  toward  the  railroad,  "to  mend  that  break  in  the 
fence  by  the  Long  Trestle  and  I  thought  while  I  was  about  it 
I'd  follow  down  along  the  fence  toward  Guadalajara  to  see  if 
there  were  any  more  breaks.     But  I  guess  it's  all  right." 

"Oh,  you  guess  it's  all  right,  do  you?"  observed  Annixter 
through  his  teeth. 

"Why  —  why  —  yes,"  returned  the  other,  bewildered  at  the 
truculent  ring  in  Annixter's  voice.  "I  mended  that  break 
by  the  Long  Trestle  just  now  and " 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  mend  it  a  week  ago?"  shouted  An- 
nixter wrathfully.  "I've  been  looking  for  you  all  the  morning, 
I  have,  and  who  told  you  you  could  take  that  buckskin?  And 
the  sheep  were  all  over  the  right  of  way  last  night  because  of  that 
break,  and  here  that  filthy  pip,  S.  Behrman,  comes  down  here 
this  morning  and  wants  to  make  trouble  for  me."  Suddenly 
he  cried  out,  "What  do  I  feed  you  for?  What  do  I  keep  you 
around  here  for?  Think  it's  just  to  fatten  up  your  carcass, 
hey?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Annixter "  began  Delaney. 

"And  don't  talk  to  me,"  vociferated  the  other,  exciting 
himself  with  his  own  noise.  "Don't  you  say  a  word  to  me  even 
to  apologize.  If  I've  spoken  to  you  once  about  that  break, 
I've  spoken  fifty  times." 

"Why,  sir,"  declared  Delaney,  beginning  to  get  indignant, 
"the  sheep  did  it  themselves  last  night." 

"I  told  you  not  to  talk  to  me,"  clamored  Annixter. 

"But,  say,  look  here " 

"Get  off  the  ranch.  You  get  off  the  ranch.  And  taking 
that  buckskin  against  my  express  orders.  I  won't  have  your 
kind  about  the  place,  not  much.  I'm  easy-going  enough, 
Lord  knows,  but  I  don't  propose  to  be  imposed  on  all  the  time. 
Pack  off,  you  understand,  and  do  it  lively.  Go  to  the  foreman 
and  tell  him  I  told  him  to  pay  you  off  and  then  clear  out.    And, 


328  ANNIXTER 

you  hear  me"  he  concluded,  with  a  menacing  outthrust  of  his 
lower  jaw,  "you  hear  me,  if  I  catch  you  hanging  around  the 
ranch  house  after  this,  or  if  I  so  much  as  see  you  on  Quien 
Sabe,  I  '11  show  you  the  way  off  of  it,  my  friend,  at  the  toe  of  my 
boot.    Now,  then,  get  out  of  the  way  and  let  me  pass." 

Angry  beyond  the  power  of  retort,  Delaney  drove  the  spurs 
into  the  buckskin  and  passed  the  buggy  in  a  single  bound. 
Annixter  gathered  up  the  reins  and  drove  on,  muttering  to 
himself,  and  occasionally  looking  back  to  observe  the  buckskin 
flying  toward  the  ranch  house  in  a  spattering  shower  of  mud, 
Delaney  urging  her  on,  his  head  bent  down  against  the  falling 
rain. 

"Huh,"  grunted  Annixter  with  grim  satisfaction,  a  certain 
sense  of  good  humor  at  length  returning  to  him,  "that  just 
about  takes  the  saleratus  out  of  your  dough,  my  friend." 


XXV.  BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK1 

Thomas  Hardy 

[This  selection  pictures  Bathsheba  Everdene  and  Gabriel  Oak,  first  in  a  char- 
acterizing situation  at  the  beginning  of  the  novel,  then  in  a  marking  incident  a  hun- 
dred pages  later.  In  the  characterizing  situation,  Bathsheba  appears  to  have  her 
share  of  feminine  vanity  and  Gabriel  his  share  of  masculine  stolidity.  But  before 
the  marking  incident  occurs  both  characters  have  been  through  experiences  which 
considerably  modify  them.J 


When  Farmer  Oak  smiled,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  spread 
till  they  were  within  an  unimportant  distance  of  his  ears,  his 
eyes  were  reduced  to  mere  chinks,  and  diverging  wrinkles  ap- 
peared round  them,  extending  upon  his  countenance  like  the 
rays  in  a  rudimentary  sketch  of  the  rising  sun. 

His  Christian  name  was  Gabriel,  and  on  working-days  he  was 
a  young  man  of  sound  judgment,  easy  motions,  proper  dress, 
and  general  good  character. 

On  Sundays  he  was  a  man  of  misty  views,  rather  given  to 
a  postponing  treatment  of  things,  whose  best  clothes  and  seven- 
and  sixpenny  umbrella  were  always  hampering  him;  upon  the 
whole,  one  who  felt  himself  to  occupy  morally  that  vast  middle 
space  of  Laodicean  neutrality  which  lay  between  the  sacrament 
people  of  the  parish  and  the  drunken  division  of  its  inhabitants 
—  that  is,  he  went  to  church,  but  yawned  privately  by  the  time 
the  congregation  reached  the  Nicene  Creed,  and  thought  of 
what  there  would  be  for  dinner  when  he  meant  to  be  listening 
to  the  sermon.  Or,  to  state  his  character  as  it  stood  in  the  scale 
of  public  opinion,  when  his  friends  and  critics  were  in  tantrums, 
he  was  considered  rather  a  bad  man;  when  they  were  pleased, 
he  was  rather  a  good  man;  when  they  were  neither,  he  was  a 

1  Reprinted  from  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd. 


330  BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 

man  whose  moral  color  was  a  kind  of  pepper-and-salt  mixture. 
Since  he  lived  six  times  as  many  working-days  as  Sundays, 
Oak's  appearance  in  his  old  clothes  was  most  peculiarly  his  own 
—  the  mental  picture  formed  by  his  neighbors  always  presenting 
him  as  dressed  in  that  way  when  their  imaginations  answered 
to  the  thought  "Gabriel  Oak."  He  wore  a  low-crowned  felt 
hat  spread  out  at  the  base  by  tight  jamming  upon  the  head  for 
security  in  high  winds,  and  a  coat  like  Dr.  Johnson's,  his  lower 
extremities  being  incased  in  ordinary  leather  leggings  and  boots 
emphatically  large,  affording  to  each  foot  a  roomy  apartment 
so  constructed  that  any  wearer  might  stand  in  a  river  all  day 
long  and  know  nothing  about  it  —  their  maker  being  a  con- 
scientious man  who  always  endeavored  to  compensate  for  any 
weakness  in  his  cut  by  unstinted  dimension  and  solidity. 

Mr.  Oak  carried  about  him,  by  way  of  watch,  what  may  be 
called  a  small  silver  clock;  in  other  words,  it  was  a  watch  as 
to  shape  and  intention,  and  a  small  clock  as  to  size.  This 
instrument  being  several  years  older  than  Oak's  grandfather, 
had  the  peculiarity  of  going  either  too  fast  or  not  at  all.  The 
smaller  of  the  two  hands,  too,  occasionally  slipped  round  on  the 
pivot,  and  thus,  though  the  minutes  were  told  with  the  greatest 
precision,  nobody  could  be  quite  certain  of  the  hour  they  belonged 
to.  The  stopping  peculiarity  of  his  watch  Oak  remedied  by 
thumps  and  shakes,  when  it  always  went  on  again  immediately, 
and  he  escaped  any  evil  consequences  from  the  other  two 
defects  by  constant  comparisons  with  and  observations  of  the 
sun  and  stars,  and  by  pressing  his  face  close  to  the  glass  of  his 
neighbors'  windows  when  passing  by  their  houses,  till  he  could 
discern  the  hour  marked  by  the  green-faced  time-keepers  within. 
It  may  be  mentioned  that  Oak's  fob,  being  painfully  difficult 
of  access,  by  reason  of  its  somewhat  high  situation  in  the  waist- 
band of  his  trousers  (which  also  lay  at  a  remote  height  under  his 
waistcoat),  the  watch  was  as  a  necessity  pulled  out  by  throwing 
the  body  extremely  to  one  side,  compressing  the  mouth  and 


THOMAS  HARDY  331 

face  to  a  mere  mass  of  wrinkles  on  account  of  the  exertion 
required,  and  drawing  up  the  watch  by  its  chain,  like  a  bucket 
from  a  well. 

But  some  thoughtful  persons,  who  had  seen  him  walking 
across  one  of  his  fields  on  a  certain  December  morning  — 
sunny  and  exceedingly  mild  —  might  have  regarded  Gabriel  Oak 
in  other  aspects  than  these.  In  his  face  one  might  notice  that 
many  of  the  hues  and  curves  of  youth  had  tarried  on  to  man- 
hood; there  even  remained  in  his  remoter  crannies  some  relics 
of  the  boy.  His  height  and  breadth  would  have  been  suffi- 
cient to  make  his  presence  imposing  had  they  been  exhibited 
with  due  consideration.  But  there  is  a  way  some  men  have, 
rural  and  urban  alike  —  for  which  the  mind  is  more  responsible 
than  flesh  and  sinew  —  a  way  of  curtailing  their  dimensions 
by  their  manner  of  showing  them;  and  from  a  quiet  modesty 
that  would  have  become  a  vestal,  which,  seemed  continually  to 
impress  upon  him  that  he  had  no  great  claim  on  the  world's 
room,  Oak  walked  unassumingly,  and  with  a  faintly  perceptible 
bend,  quite  distinct  from  a  bowing  of  the  shoulders.  This  may 
be  said  to  be  a  defect  in  an  individual  if  he  depends  for  his 
valuation  as  a  total  more  upon  his  appearance  than  upon  his 
capacity  to  wear  well,  which  Oak  did  not.  He  had  just  reached 
the  time  of  life  at  which  "young"  is  ceasing  to  be  the  prefix  of 
"man"  in  speaking  of  one.  He  was  at  the  brightest  period  of 
masculine  life,  for  his  intellect  and  his  emotions  were  clearly 
separated;  he  had  passed  the  time  during  which  the  influence 
of  youth  indiscriminately  mingles  them  in  the  character  of 
impulse,  and  he  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the  stage  wherein  they 
become  united  again,  in  the  character  of  prejudice,  by  the 
influence  of  a  wife  and  family.  In  short,  he  was  twenty-eight, 
and  a  bachelor. 

The  field  he  was  in  sloped  steeply  to  a  ridge  called  Norcombe 
Hill.  Through  a  spur  of  this  hill  ran  the  highway  from  Nor- 
combe  to   Casterbridge,   sunk   in   a  deep   cutting.     Casually 


332 


BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 


glancing  over  the  hedge,  Oak  saw  coming  down  the  incline  before 
him  an  ornamental  spring-wagon,  painted  yellow  and  gayly 
marked,  drawn  by  two  horses,  a  wagoner  walking  alongside 
bearing  a  whip  perpendicularly.  The  wagon  was  laden  with 
household  goods  and  window-plants,  and  on  the  apex  of  the 
whole  sat  a  woman,  young  and  attractive. 

Gabriel  had  not  beheld  the  sight  for  more  than  half  a  minute, 
when  the  vehicle  was  brought  to  a  standstill  just  beneath  his  eyes. 

"The  tail-board  of  the  wagon  is  gone,  miss,"  said  the  wagoner. 

"Then  I  heard  it  fall,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  soft  though  not 
particularly  low  voice.  "I  heard  a  noise  I  could  not  account 
for  when  we  were  coming  up  the  hill." 

"I'll  run  back." 

"Do,"  she  answered. 

The  sensible  horses  stood  perfectly  still,  and  the  wagoner's 
steps  sank  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance. 

The  girl  on  the  summit  of  the  load  sat  motionless,  surrounded 
by  tables  and  chairs  with  their  legs  upward,  backed  by  an  oak 
settle,  and  ornamented  in  front  by  pots  of  geraniums,  myrtles, 
and  cactuses,  together  with  a  caged  canary  —  all  probably 
from  the  windows  of  the  house  just  vacated.  There  was  also 
a  cat  in  a  willow  basket,  from  the  partly  opened  lid  of  which 
she  gazed  with  half-closed  eyes,  and  affectionately  surveyed  the 
small  birds  around. 

The  handsome  girl  waited  for  some  time  idly  in  her  place, 
and  the  only  sound  heard  in  the  stillness  was  the  hopping 
of  the  canary  up  and  down  the  perches  of  its  prison.  Then 
she  looked  attentively  downward.  It  was  not  at  the  bird,  nor 
at  the  cat;  it  was  at  an  oblong  package  tied  in  paper,  and  lying 
between  them.  She  turned  her  head  to  learn  if  the  wagoner 
were  coming.  He  was  not  yet  in  sight;  and  then  her  eyes  crept 
back  to  the  package,  her  thoughts  seeming  to  run  on  what  was 
inside  of  it.  At  length  she  drew  the  article  into  her  lap,  and 
untied  the  paper  covering;    a  small  swing  looking-glass  was 


THOMAS  HARDY 


333 


disclosed,  in  which  she  proceeded  to  survey  herself  attentively. 
Then  she  parted  her  lips  and  smiled. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  and  the  sun  lighted  up  to  a  scarlet 
glow  the  crimson  jacket  she  wore,  and  painted  a  soft  luster 
upon  her  bright  face  and  black  hair.  The  myrtles,  geraniums, 
and  cactuses  packed  around  her  were  fresh  and  green,  and  at 
such  a  leafless  season  they  invested  the  whole  concern  of  horses, 
wagon,  furniture,  and  girl  with  a  peculiar  charm  of  rarity. 
What  possessed  her  to  indulge  in  such  a  performance  in  the 
sight  of  the  sparrows,  blackbirds,  and  unperceived  farmer,  who 
were  alone  its  spectators  —  whether  the  smile  began  as  a  facti- 
tious one,  to  test  her  capacity  in  that  art,  nobody  knows;  it 
ended  certainly  in  a  real  smile.  She  blushed  at  herself,  and  see- 
ing her  reflection  blush,  blushed  the  more. 

The  change  from  the  customary  spot  and  necessary  occasion 
of  such  an  act  —  from  the  dressing  hour  in  a  bedroom  to  a 
time  of  traveling  out-of-doors  —  lent  to  the  idle  deed  a  novelty 
it  certainly  did  not  intrinsically  possess.  The  picture  was  a 
delicate  one.  Woman's  prescriptive  infirmity  had  stalked 
into  the  sunlight,  which  had  invested  it  with  the  freshness  of 
an  originality.  A  cynical  inference  was  irrestible  by  Gabriel 
Oak  as  he  regarded  the  scene,  generous  though  he  fain  would  have 
been.  There  was  no  necessity  whatever  for  her  looking  in  the 
glass.  She  did  not  adjust  her  hat,  or  pat  her  hair,  or  press  a 
dimple  into  shape,  or  do  one  thing  to  signify  that  any  such 
intention  had  been  her  motive  in  taking  up  the  glass.  She 
simply  observed  herself  as  a  fair  product  of  nature  in  a  feminine 
direction,  her  expression  seeming  to  glide  into  far-off  though 
likely  dramas  in  which  men  would  play  a  part  —  vistas  of 
probable  triumphs  —  the  smiles  being  of  a  phase  suggesting 
that  hearts  were  imagined  as  lost  and  won.  Still,  this  was  but 
conjecture,  and  the  whole  series  of  actions  were  so  idly  put 
forth  as  to  make  it  rash  to  assert  that  intention  had  any  part  in 
them  at  all. 


334  BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 

The  wagoner's  steps  were  heard  returning.  She  put  the 
glass  in  the  paper,  and  the  whole  again  into  its  place. 

When  the  wagon  had  passed  on,  Gabriel  withdrew  from 
his  point  of  espial,  and,  descending  into  the  road,  followed 
the  vehicle  to  the  turnpike-gate  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
where  the  object  of  his  contemplation  now  halted  for  the  pay- 
ment of  toll.  About  twenty  steps  still  remained  between  him 
and  the  gate,  when  he  heard  a  dispute.  It  was  a  difference 
concerning  twopence  between  the  persons  with  the  wagon  and 
the  man  at  the  toll-bar. 

"Miss'ess'  niece  is  upon  the  top  of  the  things,  and  she  says 
that's  enough  that  I've  offered  ye,  you  great  miser,  and  she 
won't  pay  any  more."    These  were  the  wagoner's  words. 

"Very  well;  then  mis'ess'  niece  can't  pass,"  said  the  turnpike 
keeper,  closing  the  gate. 

Oak  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  disputants,  and  fell 
into  a  reverie.  There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  twopence 
remarkably  insignificant.  Threepence  had  a  definite  value  as 
money;  it  was  an  appreciable  infringement  on  a  day's  wages, 
and,  as  such,  a  higgling  matter;  but  twopence  —  "Here,"  he 
said,  stepping  forward  and  handing  twopence  to  the  gate- 
keeper; "let  the  young  woman  pass."  He  looked  up  at  her 
then;   she  heard  his  words,  and  looked  down. 

Gabriel's  features  adhered  throughout  their  form  so  exactly 
to  the  middle  line  between  the  beauty  of  St.  John  and  the 
ugliness  of  Judas  Iscariot,  as  represented  in  a  window  of  the 
church  he  attended,  that  not  a  single  lineament  could  be  selected 
and  called  worthy  either  of  distinction  or  notoriety.  The  red- 
jacketed  and  dark-haired  maiden  seemed  to  think  so  too,  for 
she  carelessly  glanced  over  him,  and  told  her  man  to  drive  on. 
She  might  have  looked  her  thanks  to  Gabriel  on  a  minute  scale, 
but  she  did  not  speak  them;  more  probably  she  felt  none,  for 
in  gaining  her  a  passage  he  had  lost  her  her  point,  and  we  know 
how  women  take  a  favor  of  that  kind. 


THOMAS  HARDY  335 

The  gate-keeper  surveyed  the  retreating  vehicle. 

"That's  a  handsome  maid,"  he  said  to  Oak. 

"But  she  has  her  faults,"  said  Gabriel. 

"True,  farmer." 

"And  the  greatest  of  them  is  —  well,  what  it  is  always." 

"Beating  people  down;  ay,  'tis  so." 

"Oh,  no." 

"What  then?" 

Gabriel,  perhaps  a  little  piqued  by  the  comely  traveler's 
indifference,  glanced  back  to  where  he  had  witnessed  her  per- 
formance over  the  hedge,  and  said,  "Vanity." 

[[Gabriel,  in  spite  of  his  judgment  on  Bathsheba,  falls  very  promptly  in  love  with 
her,  and  after  she  saves  his  life  from  asphyxiation  in  a  shepherd's  hut,  he  proposes 
marriage  to  her.  She  is  flattered,  but  she  refuses  him.  In  the  next  few  weeks 
their  stations  in  life  change  considerably.  Bathsheba  inherits  from  an  uncle  a  large 
farm  at  Weatherbury  and  takes  charge  of  it  herself.  Gabriel,  through  the  chance 
of  having  a  young  inexperienced  sheep-dog,  loses  his  whole  flock,  and  is  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  hiring  out  as  a  laborer.  Accident  takes  him  to  Bathsheba's 
farm,  and  the  undercurrent  of  romance  in  his  nature,  induces  him  to  accept  the 
position  there  of  head  shepherd.  It  is  part  of  Bathsheba's  vanity  that  she  should 
wish  to  have  him  as  her  dependent.  It  turns  out  again  and  again,  however,  that 
she  is  forced  to  rely  on  Gabriel's  greater  skill  and  sounder  judgment  in  managing 
farm  matters.  She  usually  takes  Gabriel's  advice,  except  in  regard  to  her  private 
affairs. 

The  following  incidents  occur  as  the  sequel  to  Bathsheba's  growing  friendship 
with  farmer  Boldwood,  the  most  important  man  of  the  neighborhood.  Bathsheba 
has  attracted  his  attention  by  a  bit  of  innocent  caprice,  but  she  has  not  the  slightest 
idea  whether  or  not  she  wishes  to  regard  him  seriously  as  a  suitor.  She  is  perversely 
curious  to  know  what  Gabriel  might  think  of  the  match.  It  is  obviously  a  dangerous 
subject  of  conversation,  and  a  good  deal  follows  that  neither  she  nor  Gabriel  in- 
tended should  follow.] 

II 

"Will  you  turn,  Gabriel,  and  let  me  hold  the  shears?"  she 
said.     "My  head  is  in  a  whirl,  and  I  can't  talk." 

Gabriel  turned.  Bathsheba  then  began,  with  some  awk- 
wardness, allowing  her  thoughts  to  stray  occasionally  from 
her  story  to  attend  to  the  shears,  which  required  a  little  nicety 
in  sharpening. 


336       BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  the  men  made  any  observations  on 
my  going  behind  the  sedge  with  Mr.  Boldwood,  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  they  did,"  said  Gabriel.  "You  don't  hold  the  shears 
right,  miss  —  I  knew  you  wouldn't  know  the  way  —  hold  like 
this." 

He  relinquished  the  winch,  and  inclosing  her  two  hands 
completely  in  his  own  (taking  each  as  we  sometimes  clasp  a 
child's  hand  in  teaching  him  to  write),  grasped  the  shears  with 
her.     "Incline  the  edge  so,"  he  said. 

Hands  and  shears  were  inclined  to  suit  the  words,  and  held 
thus  for  a  peculiarly  long  time  by  the  instructor  as  he  spoke. 

"That  will  do,"  exclaimed  Bathsheba.  "Loose  my  hands. 
I  won't  have  them  held!    Turn  the  winch." 

Gabriel  freed  her  hands  quietly,  retired  to  his  handle,  and  the 
grinding  went  on. 

"Did  the  men  think  it  odd?"  she  said  again. 

"Odd  was  not  the  idea,  miss." 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"That  Farmer  Boldwood's  name  and  your  own  were  likely 
to  be  flung  over  pulpit  together  before  the  year  was  out." 

"I  thought  so  by  the  look  of  them!  Why,  there's  nothing 
in  it.  A  more  foolish  remark  was  never  made,  and  I  want  you 
to  contradict  it;  that's  what  I  came  for." 

Gabriel  looked  incredulous  and  sad,  but  between  his  move- 
ments of  incredulity,  relieved. 

"They  must  have  heard  our  conversation,"  she  continued. 

"Well,  then,  Bathsheba!"  said  Oak,  stopping  the  handle,  and 
gazing  into  her  face  with  astonishment. 

"Miss  Everdene,  you  mean,"  she  said  with  dignity. 

"I  mean  this:  that  if  Mr.  Boldwood  really  spoke  of  marriage, 
I  am  not  going  to  tell  a  story  and  say  he  didn't,  to  please  you. 
I  have  already  tried  to  please  you  too  much  for  my  own  good." 

Bathsheba  regarded  him  with  round-eyed  perplexity.  She 
did  not  know  whether  to  pity  him  for  disappointed  love  of  her, 


THOMAS   HARDY  337 

or  to  be  angry  with  him  for  having  got  over  it  —  his  tone  being 
ambiguous. 

"I  said  I  wanted  you  just  to  mention  that  it  was  not  true 
I  was  going  to  be  married  to  him,"  she  murmured,  with  a  slight 
decline  in  her  assurance. 

"I  can  say  that  to  them  if  you  wish,  Miss  Everdene.  And 
I  could  likewise  give  an  opinion  to  you  on  what  you  have  done." 

"I  dare  say.     But  I  don't  want,  your  opinion." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Gabriel  bitterly,  and  going  on  with  his 
turning,  his  words  rising  and  falling  in  a  regular  swell  and 
cadence  as  he  stooped  or  rose  with  the  winch,  which  directed 
them,  according  to  his  position,  perpendicularly  into  the  earth, 
or  horizontally  along  the  garden,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  leaf  upon 
the  ground. 

With  Bathsheba  a  hastened  act  was  a  rash  act;  but  as  does 
not  always  happen,  time  gained  was  prudence  insured.  It  must 
be  added,  however,  that  time  was  very  seldom  gained. 

At  this  period  the  single  opinion  in  the  parish  on  herself  and 
her  doings  that  she  valued  as  sounder  than  her  own  was  Gabriel 
Oak's.  And  the  outspoken  honesty  of  his  character  was  such 
that  on  any  subject,  even  that  of  her  love  for,  or  marriage  with, 
another  man,  the  same  disinterestedness  of  opinion  might  be 
calculated  on,  and  be  had  for  the  asking. 

Thoroughly  convinced  of  the  impossibility  of  his  own  suit, 
a  high  resolve  constrained  him  not  to  injure  that  of  another. 
This  is  a  lover's  most  stoical  virtue,  as  the  lack  of  it  is  a  lover's 
most  venial  sin. 

Knowing  he  would  reply  truly,  she  asked  the  question, 
painful  as  she  must  have  known  the  subject  would  be.  Such 
is  the  selfishness  of  some  charming  women.  Perhaps  it  was 
some  excuse  for  her  thus  torturing  honesty  to  her  own  advantage, 
that  she  had  absolutely  no  other  sound  judgment  within  easy 
reach. 

"Well,  what  is  your  opinion  of  my  conduct?"  she  said  quietly. 


338  BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 

"  That  it  is  unworthy  of  any  thoughtful,  and  meek,  and  comely 
woman." 

In  an  instant  Bathsheba's  face  colored  with  the  angry  crimson 
of  a  Danby  sunset.  But  she  forbore  to  utter  this  feeling,  and 
the  reticence  of  her  tongue  only  made  the  loquacity  of  her 
face  the  more  noticeable. 

The  next  thing  Gabriel  did  was  to  make  a  mistake. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  like  the  rudeness  of  my  reprimanding 
you,  for  I  know  it  is  rudeness;  but  I  thought  it  would  do  good." 

She  instantly  replied  sarcastically: 

"On  the  contrary,  my  opinion  of  you  is  so  low  that  I  see  in 
your  abuse  the  praise  of  discerning  people." 

"I  am  glad  you  don't  mind  it,  for  I  said  it  honestly,  and  with 
very  serious  meaning." 

"I  see.  But  unfortunately,  when  you  try  not  to  speak  in 
jest  you  are  amusing  —  just  as  when  you  wish  to  avoid  serious- 
ness you  sometimes  say  a  sensible  word." 

It  was  a  hard  hit,  but  Bathsheba  had  unmistakably  lost 
her  temper,  and  on  that  account  Gabriel  had  never  in  his  life 
kept  his  own  better.     He  said  nothing.     She  then  broke  out: 

"I  may  ask,  I  suppose,  where  in  particular  my  unworthiness 
lies?    In  my  not  marrying  you,  perhaps!" 

"Not  by  any  means,"  said  Gabriel  quietly.  "I  have  long 
given  up  thinking  of  that  matter." 

"Or  wishing  it,  I  suppose,",  she  said,  and  it  was  apparent 
that  she  expected  an  unhesitating  denial  of  this  supposition. 

Whatever  Gabriel  felt,  he  cooly  echoed  her  words: 

"Or  wishing  it,  either." 

A  woman  may  be  treated  with  a  bitterness  which  is  sweet 
to  her,  and  with  a  rudeness  which  is  not  offensive.  Bathsheba 
would  have  submitted  to  an  indignant  chastisement  for  her 
levity,  had  Gabriel  protested  that  he  was  loving  her  at  the  same 
time;  the  impetuosity  of  passion  unrequited  is  bearable,  even 
if  it  stings  and  anathematizes  —  there  is  a  triumph  in   the 


THOMAS   HARDY  339 

humiliation,  and  a  tenderness  in  the  strife.  This  was  what  she 
had  been  expecting,  and  what  she  had  not  got.  To  be  lectured 
because  the  lecturer  saw  her  in  the  cold  morning  light  of  open- 
shuttered  disillusion  was  exasperating.  He  had  not  finished, 
either.     He  continued  in  a  more  agitated  voice: 

"  My  opinion  is  (since  you  ask  it)  that  you  are  greatly  to  blame 
for  playing  pranks  upon  a  man  like  Mr.  Boldwood,  merely  as 
a  pastime.  Leading  on  a  man  you  don't  care  for  is  not  a  praise- 
worthy action.  And  even,  Miss  Everdene,  if  you  seriously 
inclined  toward  him,  you  might  have  let  him  discover  it  in  some 
way  of  true  loving-kindness,  and  not  by  sending  him  a  valentine's 
letter." 

Bathsheba  laid  down  the  shears. 

"  I  cannot  allow  any  man  to  —  to  criticize  my  private  con- 
duct!" she  exclaimed.  "Nor  will  I  for  a  minute.  So  you'll 
please  leave  the  farm  at  the  end  of  the  week!" 

It  may  have  been  a  peculiarity  —  at  any  rate  it  was  a  fact  — 
that  when  Bathsheba  was  swayed  by  an  emotion  of  an  earthly 
sort  her  lower  lip  trembled;  when  by  a  refined  emotion,  her 
upper  or  heavenward  one.     Her  nether  lip  quivered  now. 

"Very  well,  so  I  will,"  said  Gabriel  calmly.  He  had  been  held 
to  her  by  a  beautiful  thread  which  it  pained  him  to  spoil  by 
breaking,  rather  than  by  a  chain  he  could  not  break.  "I  should 
be  even  better  pleased  to  go  at  once,"  he  added. 

"Go  at  once  then,  in  Heaven's  name!"  said  she,  her  eyes 
flashing  at  his,  though  never  meeting  them.  "Don't  let  me  see 
your  face  any  more." 

"Very  well,  Miss  Everdene  —  so  it  shall  be." 

And  he  took  his  shears  and  went  away  from  her  in  placid 
dignity,  as  Moses  left  in  the  presence  of  Pharaoh. 

Gabriel  Oak  had  ceased  to  feed  the  Weatherbury  flock  for 
about  twenty-four  hours,  when  on  Sunday  afternoon  the  elderly 
gentlemen,  Joseph  Poorgrass,  Matthew  Moon,  Fray,  and  half  a 


34° 


BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 


dozen  others  came  running  up  to  the  house  of  the  mistress  of 
the  Upper  Farm. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter,  men?"  she  said,  meeting  them  at 
the  door  just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  coming  out  on  her  way 
to  church,  and  ceasing  in  a  moment  from  the  close  compression 
of  her  two  red  lips,  with  which  she  had  accompanied  the  exertion 
of  pulling  on  a  tight  glove. 

"Sixty!"  said  Joseph  Poorgrass. 

"Seventy!"  said  Moon. 

"Fifty-nine!"  said  Susan  Tail's  husband. 

"Sheep  have  broke  fence,"  said  Fray. 

"And  got  into  a  field  of  young  clover,"  said  Tall. 

"Young  clover!"  said  Moon. 

"Clover!"  said  Joseph  Poorgrass. 

"And  they  be  getting  blasted,"  said  Henery  Fray. 

"That  they  be,"  said  Joseph. 

"And  will  all  die  as  dead  as  nits,  if  they  bain't  got  out  and 
cured!"  said  Tall. 

Joseph's  countenance  was  drawn  into  lines  and  puckers 
by  his  concern.  Fray's  forehead  was  wrinkled  both  perpen- 
dicularly and  crossways,  after  the  pattern  of  a  portcullis, 
expressive  of  a  double  despair.  Laban  Tail's  lips  were  thin, 
and  his  face  was  rigid.  Matthew's  jaws  sank,  and  his  eyes 
turned  whichever  way  the  strongest  muscle  happened  to  pull 
them. 

"Yes,"  said  Joseph,  "and  I  was  sitting  at  home,  looking 
for  Ephesians,  and  says  I  to  myself,  "Tis  nothing  but  Corin- 
thians and  Thessalonians  in  this  danged  Testament,'  when 
who  should  come  in  but  Henery  there:  'Joseph,'  he  said,  'the 
sheep  have  blasted  themselves '  " 

With  Bathsheba  it  was  a  moment  when  thought  was  speech 
and  speech  exclamation.  Moreover,  she  had  hardly  recovered 
her  equanimity  since  the  disturbance  which  she  had  suffered 
from  Oak's  remarks. 


THOMAS  HARDY  341 

"That's  enough  —  that's  enough  —  oh,  you  fools!"  she  cried, 
throwing  the  parasol  and  prayer-book  into  the  passage,  and 
running  out  of  doors  in  the  direction  signified.  "To  come  to 
me,  and  not  go  and  get  them  out  directly!  Oh,  the  stupid 
numskulls!" 

Her  eyes  were  at  their  darkest  and  brightest  now.  Bathsheba's 
beauty  belonging  rather  to  the  redeemed-demonian  than  to 
the  blemished-angelic  school,  she  never  looked  so  well  as  when 
she  was  angry — and  particularly  when  the  effect  was  heightened 
by  a  rather  dashing  velvet  dress,  carefully  put  on  before  a  glass. 

All  the  ancient  men  ran  in  a  jumbled  throng  after  her  to  the 
clover  field,  Joseph  sinking  down  in  the  midst  when  about  half- 
way, like  an  individual  withering  in  a  world  which  got  more  and 
more  unstable.  Having  once  received  the  stimulus  that  her 
presence  always  gave  them,  they  went  round  among  the  sheep 
with  a  will.  The  majority  of  the  afflicted  animals  were  lying 
down,  and  could  not  be  stirred.  These  were  bodily  lifted  out, 
and  the  others  driven  into  the  adjoining  field.  Here,  after 
the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes  several  more  fell  down,  and  lay 
helpless  and  livid  as  the  rest. 

Bathsheba,  with  a  sad,  bursting  heart,  looked  at  these  primest 
specimens  of  her  prime  flock  as  they  rolled  there, 

"Swol'n  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  drew." 

Many  of  them  foamed  at  the  mouth,  their  breathing  being  quick 
and  short,  while  the  bodies  of  all  were  fearfully  distended. 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do,  what  can  I  do!"  said  Bathsheba  help- 
lessly. "Sheep  are  such  unfortunate  animals!  there's  always 
something  happening  to  them!  I  never  knew  a  flock  pass  a 
year  without  getting  into  some  scrape  or  other." 

"There's  only  one  way  of  saving  them,"  said  Tall. 

"What  way?    Tell  me  quick!" 

"They  must  be  pierced  in  the  side  with  a  thing  made  on 
purpose." 


342  BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 

"Can  you  do  it?    Can  I!" 

"No,  ma'am.  We  can't,  nor  you  neither.  It  must  be  done 
in  a  particular  spot.  If  ye  go  to  the  right  or  left  but  an  inch, 
you  stab  the  ewe  and  kill  her.  Not  even  a  shepherd  can  do 
it,  as  a  rule." 

"Then  they  must  die,"  she  said,  in  a  resigned  tone. 

"Only  one  man  in  the  neighborhood  knows  the  way,"  said 
Joseph,  now  just  come  up.  "He  could  cure  'em  all  if  he  were 
here." 

"Who  is  he?    Let's  get  him!" 

"Shepherd  Oak,"  said  Matthew.  "Ah,  he's  a  clever  man  in 
talents!" 

"Ah,  that  he  is  so!"  said  Joseph  Poorgrass 

"True  —  he's  the  man,"  said  Laban  Tall. 

"How  dare  you  name  that  man  in  my  presence!"  she  said 
excitedly.  "I've  told  you  never  to  allude  to  him,  nor  shall  you, 
if  you  stay  with  me.  Ah,"  she  added,  brightening,  "Farmer 
Bold  wood  knows!" 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  said  Matthew.  "Two  of  his  store  ewes 
got  into  some  vetches  t'other  day,  and  were  just  like  these. 
He  sent  a  man  on  horseback  here  post  haste  for  Gable,  and 
Gable  went  and  saved  'em.  Farmer  Boldwood  hev  got  the 
thing  they  do  it  with.  'Tis  a  holler  pipe,  with  a  sharp  pricker 
inside.    Isn't  it,  Joseph?" 

"  Ay,  a  holler  pipe,"  echoed  Joseph.      "  That's  what  'tis." 

"Ay,  sure  —  that's  the  machine,"  chimed  in  Henery  Fray 
reflectively,  with  an  Oriental  indifference  to  the  flight  of  time. 

"Well,"  burst  out  Bathsheba,  "don't  stand  there  with  your 
ayes  and  your  sures,  talking  at  me.  Get  somebody  to  cure  the 
sheep,  instantly." 

All  then  stalked  off  in  consternation,  to  get  somebody  as 
directed,  without  any  idea  of  who  it  was  to  be.  In  a  minute 
they  had  vanished  through  the  gate,  and  she  stood  alone  with 
the  dying  flock. 


THOMAS  HARDY  343 

"Never  will  I  send  for  him  —  never!"  she  faced  firmly. 

One  of  the  ewes  here  contracted  its  muscles  horribly,  extended 
itself,  and  jumped  high  into  the  air.  The  leap  was  an  astonish- 
ing one.    The  ewe  fell  heavily  and  lay  still. 

Bathsheba  went  up  to  it.    The  sheep  was  dead. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do  —  what  shall  I  do!"  she  again  exclaimed, 
wringing  her  hands.     " I  won't  send  for  him.     No,  I  won't!" 

The  most  vigorous  expression  of  a  resolution  does  not  always 
coincide  with  the  greatest  vigor  of  the  resolution  itself.  It  is 
often  flung  out  as  a  sort  of  prop  to  support  a  decaying  con- 
viction which,  while  strong,  required  no  enunciation  to  prove 
it  so.  The  "no,  I  won't,"  of  Bathsheba,  meant  virtually  "I 
think  I  must." 

She  followed  her  assistants  through  the  gate,  and  lifted  her 
hand  to  one  of  them.    Laban  answered  to  her  signal. 

"Where  is  Oak  staying?" 

"Across  the  valley  at  Nest  Cottage." 

"Jump  on  the  bay  mare,  and  ride  across,  and  say  he  must 
return  instantly  —  that  I  say  so." 

Tall  scrambled  off  to  the  field  and  in  two  minutes  was  on 
Poll,  the  bay,  bare-backed,  and  with  only  a  halter  by  way  of 
rein.     He  diminished  down  the  hill. 

Bathsheba  watched.  So  did  all  the  rest.  Tall  cantered 
along  the  bridle-path  through  Sixteen  Acres,  Sheeplands, 
Middle  Fields,  the  Flats,  Cappel's  Piece,  shrank  almost  to  a 
point,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  ascended  from  the  valley  through 
Springmead  and  Whitepits  on  the  other  side.  The  cottage 
to  which  Gabriel  had  retired  before  taking  his  final  departure 
from  the  locality  was  visible  as  a  white  spot  on  the  oppo- 
site hill,  backed  by  blue  firs.  Bathsheba  walked  up  and 
down.  The  men  entered  the  field  and  endeavored  to  ease 
the  anguish  of  the  dumb  creatures  by  rubbing  them.  Nothing 
availed. 

Bathsheba  continued  walking.    The  horse  was  seen  descend- 


344  BATHSHEBA  AND  GABRIEL  OAK 

ing  the  hill,  and  the  wearisome  series  had  to  be  repeated  in 
reverse  order:  Whitepits,  Springmead,  Cappel's  Piece,  the  Flats, 
Middle  Field,  Sheeplands,  Sixteen  Acres. 

She  hoped  Tall  had  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  give 
the  mare  up  to  Gabriel  and  return  himself  on  foot.  The  rider 
neared  them.    It  was  Tall. 

"Oh,  what  folly!"  said  Bathsheba. 

Gabriel  was  not  visible  anywhere. 

"Perhaps  he  is  already  gone,"  she  said. 

Tall  came  into  the  inclosure,  and  leaped  off,  his  face  tragic 
as  Morton's  after  the  battle  of  Shrewsbury. 

"Well?"  said  Bathsheba,  unwilling  to  believe  that  her  verbal 
lettre-de-cachet  could  possibly  have  miscarried. 

"He  says  beggars  must  not  be  choosers,"  replied  Laban. 

"What!"  said  the  young  farmer,  opening  her  eyes  and  draw- 
ing in  her  breath  for  an  outburst.  Joseph  Poorgrass  retired 
a  few  steps  behind  a  hurdle. 

"He  says  he  shall  not  come  unless  you  request  him  to  come 
civilly  and  in  a  proper  manner,  as  becomes  any  person  begging 
a  favor." 

"Oh,  ho,  that's  his  answer!  Where  does  he  get  his  airs? 
Who  am  I,  then,  to  be  treated  like  that?  Shall  I  beg  to  a  man 
who  has  begged  to  me?" 

Another  of  the  flock  sprang  into  the  air,  and  fell  dead. 

The  men  looked  grave,  as  if  they  suppressed  opinion. 

Bathsheba  turned  aside,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  The  strait 
she  was  in  through  pride  and  shrewishness  could  not  be  dis- 
guised longer:  she  burst  out  crying  bitterly;  they  all  saw  it, 
and  she  attempted  no  further  concealment. 

"I  wouldn't  cry  about  it,  miss,"  said  William  Smallbury 
compassionately.  "Why  not  ask  him  softer  like?  I'm  sure 
he'd  come  then.     Gable  is  a  true  man  in  that  way." 

Bathsheba  checked  her  grief  and  wiped  her  eyes.  "Oh 
it  is  a  wicked  cruelty  to  me  —  it  —  is  —  it  is!"  she  murmured. 


THOMAS  HARDY  345 

"And  he  drives  me  to  do  what  I  wouldn't;  yes,  he  does!     Tall, 
come  indoors." 

After  this  collapse,  not  very  dignified  for  the  head  of  an 
establishment,  she  went  into  the  house,  Tall  at  her  heels.  Here 
she  sat  down  and  hastily  scribbled  a  note  between  the  small 
convulsive  sobs  of  convalescence  which  follow  a  fit  of  crying, 
as  a  ground-swell  follows  a  storm.  The  note  was  none  the  less 
polite  for  being  written  in  a  hurry.  She  held  it  at  a  distance, 
was  about  to  fold  it,  then  added  these  words  at  the  bottom: 

"Do  not  desert  me,  Gabriel!" 

She  looked  a  little  redder  in  refolding  it,  and  closed  her  lips 
as  if  thereby  to  suspend  till  too  late  the  action  of  conscience  in 
examining  whether  such  strategy  was  justifiable.  The  note 
was  dispatched  as  the  message  had  been,  and  Bathsheba  waited 
indoors  for  the  result. 

It  was  an  anxious  quarter  of  an  hour  that  intervened  between 
the  messenger's  departure  and  the  sound  of  the  horse's  tramp 
again  outside.  She  could  not  watch  this  time,  but,  leaning  over 
the  old  bureau  at  which  she  had  written  the  letter,  closed  her 
eyes,  as  if  to  keep  out  both  hope  and  fear. 

The  case,  however,  was  a  promising  one.  Gabriel  was  not 
angry,  he  was  simply  neutral,  although  her  first  command  had 
been  so  haughty.  Such  imperiousness  would  have  damned  a 
little  less  beauty;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  such  beauty  would 
have  redeemed  a  little  less  imperiousness. 

She  went  out  when  the  horse  was  heard,  and  looked  up. 
A  mounted  figure  passed  between  her  and  the  sky,  and  went 
on  toward  the  field  of  sheep,  the  rider  turning  his  face  in  receding. 
Gabriel  looked  at  her.  It  was  a  moment  when  a  woman's 
eyes  and  tongue  tell  distinctly  opposite  tales.  Bathsheba 
looked  full  of  gratitude,  and  she  said: 

"Oh,  Gabriel,  how  could  you  serve  me  so  unkindly?" 

Such  a  tenderly  shaped  reproach  for  his  previous  delay  was 


346  BATHSHEBA  AND   GABRIEL  OAK 

the  one  speech  in  the  language  that  he  could  pardon  for  not 
being  commendation  of  his  readiness  now. 

Gabriel  murmured  a  confused  reply,  and  hastened  on.  She 
knew  from  the  look  which  sentence  in  her  note  had  brought 
him.     Bathsheba  followed  to  the  field. 

Gabriel  was  already  among  the  turgid  prostrate  forms.  He 
had  flung  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  taken 
from  his  pocket  the  instrument  of  salvation.  It  was  a  small 
tube  or  trochar  with  a  lance  passing  down  the  inside;  and 
Gabriel  began  to  use  it  with  a  dexterity  that  would  have  graced 
a  hospital  surgeon.  Passing  his  hand  over  the  sheep's  left 
flank,  and  selecting  the  proper  point,  he  punctured  the  skin 
and  rumen  with  the  lance,  as  it  stood  in  the  tube;  then  he 
suddenly  withdrew  the  lance,  retaining  the  tube  in  its  place. 
A  current  of  air  rushed  up  the  tube  forcibly  enough  to  have 
extinguished  a  candle  held  at  the  orifice. 

It  has  been  said  that  mere  ease  after  torment  is  delight 
for  a  time;  and  the  countenance  of  these  poor  creatures  ex- 
pressed it  now.  Forty-nine  operations  were  successfully  per- 
formed. Owing  to' the  great  hurry  necessitated  by  the  far-gone 
state  of  some  of  the  flock,  Gabriel  missed  his  aim  in  one  case, 
and  in  one  only  —  striking  wide  of  the  mark,  and  inflicting  a 
mortal  blow  at  once  upon  the  suffering  ewe.  Four  had  died ; 
three  recovered  without  an  operation.  The  total  number  of 
sheep  which  had  thus  strayed  and  injured  themselves  so  danger- 
ously was  fifty-seven. 

When  the  love-led  man  had  ceased  from  his  labors,  Bathsheba 
came  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Gabriel,  will  you  stay  on  with  me?"  she  said,  smiling  win- 
ningly,  and  not  troubling  to  bring  her  lips  quite  together  again 
at  the  end,  because  there  was  going  to  be  another  smile  soon. 

"I  will,"  said  Gabriel. 

And  she  smiled  on  him  again. 


XXVI.   EUGENIE  AND   OLD   GRANDET1 
Honore  de  Balzac 

[Eugenie's  cousin,  Charles  Grandet,  has  arrived  from  Paris  the  evening  before 
this  scene  opens.  He  has  come  under  unusual  circumstances,  though  he  knows 
it  not,  and  he  has  come  to  a  most  unusual  house.  Charles's  father,  having  failed 
in  business,  has  killed  himself  and  has  sent  his  son  to  his  brother's  care.  Pere 
Grandet,  Eugenie's  father,  is  a  wealthy  provincial  wine  dealer  and  speculator,  who 
thinks  only  of  money.  He  is  a  miser,  with  the  miser's  genuine  love  of  gold  for 
gold's  sake.  He  has  arranged  the  family  housekeeping  on  the  strictest  basis,  counts 
the  lumps  of  sugar,  weighs  out  every  supply,  and  holds  his  pathetic  wife,  his  beauti- 
ful daughter,  and  his  servant  Nanon  (who  alone  knows  how  to  manage  him)  to 
sharp  account.  Into  this  extraordinary  family,  Charles,  a  graceful  young  sprig 
of  fashion,  is  suddenly  precipitated.  Charles  has  been  enjoying  the  favors  of  a 
wealthy  woman  of  the  Parisian  smart  set,  and  regards  himself  as  a  thorough 
man  of  the  world.  On  his  arrival  he  knows  nothing  of  the  tragedy  —  his  father's 
failure  and  death  —  which  hangs  over  his  head.  The  burden  of  telling  him  rests 
on  his  uncle.  The  affectionate  duty  of  giving  him  courage  and  comfort  rests  on 
his  cousin  Eugenie  and  her  mother.  Eugenie,  who  has  never  talked  to  a  young 
man  before  in  her  life,  has  promptly  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  on  the  morning 
after  his  arrival  is  to  be  seen  most  solicitously  preparing  his  breakfast  —  a  feat 
requiring  more  courage,  in  the  face  of  her  father's  certain  disapproval,  than  any- 
thing she  has  ever  done  in  her  life.] 

I. 

After  two  hours'  thought  and  care,  during  which  Eugenie 
jumped  up  twenty  times  from  her  work  to  see  if  the  coffee  were 
boiling,  or  to  go  and  listen  to  the  noise  her  cousin  made  in 
dressing,  she  succeeded  in  preparing  a  simple  little  breakfast, 
very  inexpensive,  but  which,  nevertheless,  departed  alarmingly 
from  the  inveterate  customs  of  the  house.  The  midday  break- 
fast was  always  taken  standing.  Each  took  a  slice  of  bread, 
a  little  fruit  or  some  butter,  and  a  glass  of  wine.  As  Eugenie 
looked  at  the  table  drawn  up  near  the  fire  with  an  arm-chair 

1  Reprinted  from  Eugenie  Grandet  (translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley) 
with  the  kind  permission  of  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


348  EUGENIE  AND  OLD   GRANDET 

placed  before  her  cousin's  plate,  at  the  two  dishes  of  fruit, 
the  egg-cup,  the  bottle  of  white  wine,  the  bread,  and  the  sugar 
heaped  up  in  a  saucer,  she  trembled  in  all  her  limbs  at  the  mere 
thought  of  the  look  her  father  would  give  her  if  he  should  come 
in  at  that  moment.  She  glanced  often  at  the  clock  to  see  if  her 
cousin  could  breakfast  before  the  master's  return. 

"Don't  be  troubled,  Eugenie;  if  your,  father  comes  in,  I 
will  take  it  all  upon  myself,"  said  Madame  Grandet. 

Eugenie  could  not  repress  a  tear. 

"Oh,  my  good  mother!"  she  cried,  "I  have  never  loved  you 
enough." 

Charles,  who  had  been  tramping  about  his  room  for  some  time, 
singing  to  himself,  now  came  down.  Happily,  it  was  only  eleven 
o'clock.  The  true  Parisian!  he  had  put  as  much  dandyism 
into  his  dress  as  if  he  were  in  the  chateau  of  the  noble  lady  then 
travelling  in  Scotland.  He  came  into  the  room  with  the  smiling, 
courteous  manner  so  becoming  to  youth,  which  made  Eugenie's 
heart  beat  with  mournful  joy.  He  had  taken  the  destruction 
of  his  castles  in  Anjou  as  a  joke,  and  came  up  to  his  aunt  gayly. 

"Have  you  slept  well,  dear  aunt?  and  you,  too,  my  cousin?" 

"Very  well,  monsieur;  did  you?"  said  Madame  Grandet. 

"I?  perfectly." 

"You  must  be  hungry,  cousin,"  said  Eugenie;  "will  you  take 
your  seat?" 

"I  never  breakfast  before  midday;  I  never  get  up  till  then. 
However,  I  fared  so  badly  on  the  journey  that  I  am  glad  to  eat 
something  at  once.  Besides  — "  here  he  pulled  out  the  prettiest 
watch  Breguet  ever  made.  "Dear  me!  I  am  early,  it  is  only 
eleven  o'clock!" 

"Early?"  said  Madame  Grandet. 

"Yes;  but  I  wanted  to  put  my  things  in  order.  Well,  I 
shall  be  glad  to  have  something  to  eat,  —  anything,  it  doesn't 
matter  what,  a  chicken,  a  partridge." 

"Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  Nanon,  overhearing  the  words. 


HONORE   DE   BALZAC  349 

"A  partridge!"  whispered  Eugenie  to  herself;  she  would 
gladly  have  given  the  whole  of  her  little  hoard  for  a  partridge. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  said  his  aunt. 

The  young  dandy  let  himself  drop  into  an  easy-chair,  just  as 
a  pretty  woman  falls  gracefully  upon  a  sofa.  Eugenie  and  her 
mother  took  ordinary  chairs  and  sat  beside  him,  near  the  fire. 

"Do  you  always  live  here?"  said  Charles,  thinking  the  room 
uglier  by  daylight  than  it  had  seemed  the  night  before. 

"Always,"  answered  Eugenie,  looking  at  him,  "except  during 
the  vintage.  Then  we  go  and  help  Nanon,  and  live  at  the  Ab- 
baye  des  Noyers." 

"Don't  you  ever  take  walks?" 

"Sometimes  on  Sunday  after  vespers,  when  the  weather  is 
fine,"  said  Madame  Grandet,  "we  walk  on  the  bridge,  or  we 
go  and  watch  the  haymakers." 

"Have  you  a  theatre?" 

"Go  to  the  theatre!"  exclaimed  Madame  Grandet,  "see  a 
play!    Why,  monsieur,  don't  you  know  it  is  a  mortal  sin?" 

"See  here,  monsieur,"  said  Nanon,  bringing  in  the  eggs, 
"here  are  your  chickens,  —  in  the  shell." 

"  Oh !  fresh  eggs,"  said  Charles,  who,  like  all  people  accustomed 
to  luxury,  had  already  forgotten  about  his  partridge,  "that  is 
delicious;   now,  if  you  will  give  me  the  butter,  my  good  girl." 

"Butter!  then  you  can't  have  the  galette" 

"Nanon,  bring  the  butter,"  cried  Eugenie. 

The  young  girl  watched  her  cousin  as  he  cut  his  sippets,  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  a  grisette  takes  in  a  melodrama  where 
innocence  and  virtue  triumph.  Charles,  brought  up  by  a 
charming  mother,  improved  and  trained  by  a  woman  of  fashion, 
had  the  elegant,  dainty,  foppish  movements  of  a  coxcomb. 
The  compassionate  sympathy  and  tenderness  of  a  young  girl 
possess  a  power  that  is  actually  magnetic;  so  that  Charles, 
finding  himself  the  object  of  the  attentions  of  his  aunt  and  cousin, 
could  not  escape  the  influence  of  feelings  which  flowed  towards 


350  EUGENTE  AND  OLD   GRANDET 

him,  as  it  were,  and  inundated  him.  He  gave  Eugenie  a  bright, 
caressing  look  full  of  kindness,  —  a  look  which  seemed  itself  a 
smile.  He  perceived,  as  his  eyes  lingered  upon  her,  the  exquisite 
harmony  of  features  in  the  pure  face,  the  grace  of  her  innocent 
attitude,  the  magic  clearness  of  the  eyes,  where  young  love 
sparkled  and  desire  shone  unconsciously. 

"Ah!  my  dear  cousin,  if  you  were  in  full  dress  at  the  Opera, 
I  assure  you  my  aunt's  words  would  come  true,  —  you  would 
make  the  men  commit  the  mortal  sin  of  envy,  and  the  women 
the  sin  of  jealousy." 

The  compliment  went  to  Eugenie's  heart  and  set  it  beating, 
though  she  did  not  understand  its  meaning. 

"Oh!  cousin,"  she  said,  "you  are  laughing  at  a  poor  little 
country  girl." 

"If  you  knew  me,  my  cousin,  you  would  know  that  I  abhor 
ridicule;  it  withers  the  heart  and  jars  upon  all  my  feelings." 
Here  he  swallowed  his  buttered  sippet  very  gracefully.  "No, 
I  really  have  not  enough  mind  to  make  fun  of  others;  and 
doubtless  it  is  a  great  defect.  In  Paris,  when  they  want  to 
disparage  a  man,  they  say:  'He  has  a  good  heart.'  The  phrase 
means:  'The  poor  fellow  is  as  stupid  as  a  rhinoceros.'  But  as 
I  am  rich,  and  known  to  hit  the  bull's-eye  at  thirty  paces  with 
any  kind  of  pistol,  and  even  in  the  fields,  ridicule  respects  me." 

"My  dear  nephew,  that  bespeaks  a  good  heart." 

"You  have  a  very  pretty  ring,"  said  Eugenie;  "is  there  any 
harm  in  asking  to  see  it?" 

Charles  held  out  his  hand  after  loosening  the  ring,  and  Eugenie 
blushed  as  she  touched  the  pink  nails  of  her  cousin  with  the  tips 
of  her  fingers. 

"See,  mamma,  what  beautiful  workmanship." 

"  My !  there's  a  lot  of  gold !"  said  Nanon,  bringing  in  the  coffee. 

"What  is  that?"  exclaimed  Charles,  laughing,  as  he  pointed 
to  an  oblong  pot  of  brown  earthenware,  glazed  on  the  inside, 
and  edged  with  a  fringe  of  ashes,  from  the  bottom  of  which  the 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  351 

coffee-grounds  were  bubbling  up  and  falling  in  the  boiling 
liquid. 

"It  is  boiled  coffee,"  said  Nanon. 

"Ah!  my  dear  aunt,  I  shall  at  least  leave  one  beneficent  trace 
of  my  visit  here.  You  are  indeed  behind  the  age!  I  must 
teach  you  to  make  good  coffee  in  a  Chaptal  coffee-pot." 

He  tried  to  explain  the  process  of  a  Chaptal  coffee-pot. 

"Gracious!  if  there  are  so  many  things  as  all  that  to  do," 
said  Nanon,  "we  may  as  well  give  up  our  lives  to  it.  I  shall 
never  make  coffee  that  way;  I  know  that!  Pray,  who  is  to  get 
the  fodder  for  the  cow  while  I  make  the  coffee?" 

"I  will  make  it,"  said  Eugenie. 

"Child!"  said  Madame  Grandet,  looking  at  her  daughter. 

The  word  recalled  to  their  minds  the  sorrow  that  was  about 
to  fall  upon  the  unfortunate  young  man;  the  three  women 
were  silent,  and  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  commiseration  that 
caught  his  attention. 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  my  cousin?"  he  said. 

"Hush!"  said  Madame  Grandet  to  Eugenie,  who  was  about 
to  answer;  "you  know,  my  daughter,  that  your  father  charged 
us  not  to  speak  to  monsieur  —  " 

"Say  Charles,"  said  young  Grandet. 

"Ah!  you  are  called  Charles?  What  a  beautiful  name!" 
cried  Eugenie. 

Presentiments  of  evil  are  almost  always  justified.  At  this 
moment  Nanon,  Madame  Grandet,  and  Eugenie,  who  had  all 
three  been  thinking  with  a  shudder  of  the  old  man's  return, 
heard  the  knock  whose  echoes  they  knew  but  too  well. 

"There's  papa!"  said  Eugenie. 

She  removed  the  saucer  filled  with  sugar,  leaving  a  few  pieces 
on  the  table-cloth;  Nanon  carried  off  the  egg-cup;  Madame 
Grandet  sat  up  like  a  frightened  hare.  It  was  evidently  a 
panic,  which  amazed  Charles,  who  was  wholly  unable  to  under- 
stand it. 


352  EUGENIE  AND  OLD  GRANDET 

"Why!  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"My  father  has  come,"  answered  Eugenie. 

"Well,  what  of  that?" 

Monsieur  Grandet  entered  the  room,  threw  his  keen  eye  upon 
the  table,  upon  Charles,  and  saw  the  whole  thing. 

"Ha!  ha!  so  you  have  been  making  a  feast  for  your  nephew; 
very  good,  very  good,  very  good  indeed!"  he  said,  without 
stuttering.     "When  the  cat's  away,  the  mice  will  play." 

"Feast!"  thought  Charles,  incapable  of  suspecting  or  imagin- 
ing the  rules  and  customs  of  the  household. 

"Give  me  my  glass,  Nanon,"  said  the  master. 

Eugenie  brought  the  glass.  Grandet  drew  a  horn-handled 
knife  with  a  big  blade  from  his  breeches'  pocket,  cut  a  slice  of 
bread,  took  a  small  bit  of  butter,  spread  it  carefully  on  the  bread, 
and  ate  it  standing.  At  this  moment  Charles  was  sweetening 
his  coffee.  Pere  Grandet  saw  the  bits  of  sugar,  looked  at  his 
wife,  who  turned  pale,  and  made  three  steps  forward;  he  leaned 
down  to  the  poor  woman's  ear  and  said, 

"Where  did  you  get  all  that  sugar?" 

"Nanon  fetched  it  from  Fessard's;  there  was  none." 

It  is  impossible  to  picture  the  profound  interest  the  three 
women  took  in  this  mute  scene.  Nanon  had  left  her  kitchen 
and  stood  looking  into  the  room  to  see  what  would  happen. 
Charles,  having  tasted  his  coffee,  found  it  bitter  and  glanced 
about  for  the  sugar,  which  Grandet  had  already  put  away. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  his  uncle. 

"The  sugar." 

"Put  in  more  milk,"  answered  the  master  of  the  house; 
"your  coffee  will  taste  sweeter." 

Eugenie  took  the  saucer  which  Grandet  had  put  away  and 
placed  it  on  the  table,  looking  calmly  at  her  father  as  she  did  so. 
Most  assuredly,  the  Parisian  woman  who  held  a  silken  ladder 
with  her  feeble  arms  to  facilitate  the  flight  of  her  lover,  showed 
no  greater  courage  than  Eugenie  displayed  when  she  replaced 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  353 

the  sugar  upon  the  table.  The  lover  rewarded  his  mistress 
when  she  proudly  showed  him  her  beautiful  bruised  arm,  and 
bathed  every  swollen  vein  with  tears  and  kisses  till  it  was  cured 
with  happiness.  Charles,  on  the  other  hand,  never  so  much  as 
knew  the  secret  of  the  cruel  agitation  that  shook  and  bruised 
the  heart  of  his  cousin,  crushed  as  it  was  by  the  look  of  the  old 
miser. 

"You  are  not  eating  your  breakfast,  wife." 

The  poor  helot  came  forward  with  a  piteous  look,  cut  herself 
a  piece  of  bread,  and  took  a  pear.  Eugenie  boldly  offered  her 
father  some  grapes,  saying, 

"Taste  my  preserves,  papa.  My  cousin,  you  will  eat  some, 
will  you  not?  I  went  to  get  these  pretty  grapes  expressly  for 
you." 

"If  no  one  stops  them,  they  will  pillage  Saumur  for  you, 
nephew.  When  you  have  finished,  we  will  go  into  the  garden; 
I  have  something  to  tell  you  which  can't  be  sweetened." 

Eugenie  and  her  mother  cast  a  look  on  Charles  whose  meaning 
the  young  man  could  not  mistake. 

"What  is  it  you  mean,  uncle?  Since  the  death  of  my  poor 
mother"  —  at  these  words  his  voice  softened  —  "no  other 
sorrow  can  touch  me." 

"My  nephew,  who  knows  by  what  afflictions  God  is  pleased 
to  try  us?"  said  his  aunt. 

"Ta,  ta,  ta,  ta,"  said  Grandet,  "there's  your  nonsense 
beginning.  I  am  sorry  to  see  those  white  hands  of  yours, 
nephew;"  and  he  showed  the  shoulder-of-mutton  fists  which 
Nature  had  put  at  the  end  of  his  own  arms.  "There's  a  pair 
of  hands  made  to  pick  up  silver  pieces.  You've  been  brought 
up  to  put  your  feet  in  the  kid  out  of  which  we  make  the  purses 
we  keep  our  money  in.    A  bad  look-out!    Very  bad!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  uncle?  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  understand 
a  single  word  of  what  you  are  saying." 

"Come!"  said  Grandet. 


354  EUGENIE  AND  OLD  GRANDET 

The  miser  closed  the  blade  of  his  knife  with  a  snap,  drank 
the  last  of  his  wine,  and  opened  the  door. 

QAfter  the  blow  has  fallen  and  Charles  has  somewhat  recovered  from  his  first 
shock  of  grief,  he  and  Eugenie  are  drawn  together  by  the  inevitable  bonds  of  youth 
and  sympathy.  With  Eugenie  it  is  the  one  love  of  a  life.  She  would  give  anything 
to  Charles  that  he  might  ask.  But  Charles,  though  he  loves  her  as  much  as  he 
could  love  anybody,  is  of  a  shallow,  worldly  nature,  incapable  of  appreciating  her. 
In  reality  Charles  is  something  like  his  uncle,  the  miser.  It  is  Eugenie's  fate  to 
give  her  happiness,  without  return,  to  these  two  men. 

Eugenie's  father  has  bestowed  upon  her  every  year,  for  his  own  pleasure,  rare 
gold  pieces,  Lisbonnines  and  Genovines,  altogether  a  considerable  pile  by  now, 
worth  five  thousand  nine  hundred  and  fifty-nine  francs  in  actual  value,  and  even 
more  to  collectors.  This  yellow  hoard  Pere  Grandet  is  in  the  habit  of  demanding 
a  sight  of  on  Eugenie's  birthday  or  on  New  Year's  day.  Therefore,  for  Eugenie 
to  give  it  to  Charles  requires  courage. 

But  Eugenie  sees  a  letter,  in  which  Charles,  who  thinks  himself  badly  in  debt, 
tells  a  friend  in  Paris  to  sell  all  his  belongings.  She  at  once  offers  her  purse  of 
gold  pieces.  In  return  for  it  Charles  gives  her  a  richly  jewelled  picture  of  his  mother, 
which  she  treasures  in  the  drawer  where  she  had  kept  the  gold.  For  several  weeks 
now,  while  Charles  remains,  he  is  romantically  in  love  with  Eugenie.  But  it  is 
shortly  arranged  that  he  shall  go  away  to  make  his  fortune  out  of  France  where 
his  father's  story  will  not  embarrass  him.  Eugenie  is  left  to  fight  with  her  father 
her  battle  for  independence.  Her  character,  given  its  tonic  by  past  events  and 
emancipated  by  her  complete  devotion  to  Charles,  is  equal  to  the  struggle.] 

II 

Two  months  went  by.  This  domestic  life,  once  so  monotonous, 
was  now  quickened  with  the  intense  interest  of  a  secret  that 
bound  these  women  intimately  together.  For  them  Charles 
lived  and  moved  beneath  the  grim  gray  rafters  of  the  hall. 
Night  and  morning  Eugenie  opened  the  dressing-case  and  gazed 
at  the  portrait  of  her  aunt.  One  Sunday  morning  her  mother 
surprised  her  as  she  stood  absorbed  in  finding  her  cousin's  fea- 
tures in  his  mother's  face.  Madame  Grandet  was  then  for  the 
first  time  admitted  into  the  terrible  secret  of  the  exchange 
made  by  Charles  against  her  daughter's  treasure. 

"You  gave  him  all!"  cried  the  poor  mother,  terrified.  "What 
will  you  say  to  your  father  on  New  Year's  Day  when  he  asks 
to  see  your  gold?" 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  355 

Eugenie's  eyes  grew  fixed,  and  the  two  women  lived  through 
mortal  terror  for  more  than  half  the  morning.  They  were  so 
troubled  in  mind  that  they  missed  high  Mass,  and  only  went  to 
the  military  service.  In  three  days  the  year  181 9  would  come 
to  an  end.  In  three  days  a  terrible  drama  would  begin,  a  bour- 
geois tragedy,  without  poison,  or  dagger,  or  the  spilling  of  blood ; 
but  —  as  regards  the  actors  in  it  —  more  truel  than  all  the 
fabled  horrors  in  the  family  of  the  Atrides. 

"What  will  become  of  us?"  said  Madame  Grandet  to  her 
daughter,  letting  her  knitting  fall  upon  her  knees. 

The  poor  mother  had  gone  through  such  anxiety  for  the  past 
two  months  that  the  woollen  sleeves  which  she  needed  for  the 
coming  winter  were  not  yet  finished.  This  domestic  fact, 
insignificant  as  it  seems,  bore  sad  results.  For  want  of  those 
sleeves,  a  chill  seized  her  in  the  midst  of  a  sweat  caused  by  a 
terrible  explosion  of  anger  on  the  part  of  her  husband. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  my  poor  child,  that  if  you  had  con- 
fided your  secret  to  me  we  should  have  had  time  to  write  to 
Monsieur  des  Grassins  in  Paris.  He  might  have  sent  us  gold 
pieces  like  yours;  though  Grandet  knows  them  all,  perhaps  —  " 

"Where  could  we  have  got  the  money?" 

"I  would  have  pledged  my  own  property.  Besides,  Monsieur 
des  Grassins  would  have  —  " 

"It  is  too  late,"  said  Eugenie  in  a  broken,  hollow  voice. 
"To-morrow  morning  we  must  go  and  wish  him  a  happy  New 
Year  in  his  chamber." 

"But,  my  daughter,  why  should  I  not  consult  the  Cruchots?" 

"No,  no;  it  would  be  delivering  me  up  to  them,  and  putting 
ourselves  in  their  power.  Besides,  I  have  chosen  my  course. 
I  have  done  right.  I  repent  of  nothing.  God  will  protect  me. 
His  will  be  done!  Ah!  mother,  if  you  had  read  his  letter,  you, 
too,  would  have  thought  only  of  him." 

The  next  morning,  January  1,  1820,  the  horrible  fear  to  which 
mother  and  daughter  were  a  prey  suggested  to  their  minds  a 


356  EUGENIE  AND  OLD  GRANDET 

natural  excuse  by  which  to  escape  the  solemn  entrance  into 
Grandet's  chamber.  The  winter  of  1819-1820  was  one  of  the 
coldest  of  that  epoch.    The  snow  encumbered  the  roofs. 

Madame  Grandet  called  to  her  husband  as  soon  as  she  heard 
him  stirring  in  his  chamber,  and  said, 

"  Grandet,  will  you  let  Nanon  light  a  fire  here  for  me?  The 
cold  is  so  sharp  that  I  am  freezing  under  the  bedclothes.  At  my 
age  I  need  some  comforts.  Besides,"  she  added,  after  a  slight 
pause,  "  Eugenie  shall  come  and  dress  here;  the  poor  child  might 
get  an  illness  from  dressing  in  her  cold  room  in  such  weather. 
Then  we  will  go  and  wish  you  a  happy  New  Year  beside  the 
fire  in  the  hall." 

"Ta,  ta,  ta,  ta,  what  a  tongue!  a  pretty  way  to  begin  the  new 
year,  Ma'ame  Grandet!  You  never  talked  so  much  before; 
but  you  haven't  been  sopping  your  bread  in  wine,  I  know  that." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  goodman,  who  no  doubt  had  some 
reason  of  his  own  for  agreeing  to  his  wife's  request,  "I'll  do 
what  you  ask,  Madame  Grandet.  You  are  a  good  woman, 
and  I  don't  want  any  harm  to  happen  to  you  at  your  time  of 
life,  —  though  as  a  general  thing  the  Bertellieres  are  as  sound 
as  a  roach.  Hein!  isn't  that  so?"  he  added  after  a  pause. 
"Well,  I  forgive  them;  we  got  their  property  in  the  end." 
And  he  coughed. 

"You  are  very  gay  this  morning,  monsieur,"  said  the  poor 
woman  gravely. 

"I'm  always  gay,  — 

" '  Gai,  gai,  gai,  le  tonnelier, 
Raccommodez  votre  cuvier! '  " 

he  answered,  entering  his  wife's  room  fully  dressed.  "Yes, 
on  my  word,  it  is  cold  enough  to  freeze  you  solid.  We  shall 
have  a  fine  breakfast,  wife.  Des  Grassins  has  sent  me  a  pate-de- 
foie-gras  truffled !    I  am  going  now  to  get  it  at  the  coach-office. 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  357 

There'll  be  a  double  napoleon  for  Eugenie  in  the  package," 
he  whispered  in  Madame  Grandet's  ear.  "I  have  no  gold  left, 
wife.  I  had  a  few  stray  pieces  —  I  don 't  mind  telling  you  that 
—  but  I  had  to  let  them  go  in  business." 

Then,  by  way  of  celebrating  the  new  year,  he  kissed  her  on 
the  forehead. 

"Eugenie,"  cried  the  mother,  when  Grandet  was  fairly  gone, 
"I  don't  know  which  side  of  the  bed  your  father  got  out  of,  but 
he  is  good-tempered  this  morning.  Perhaps  we  shall  come  out 
safe  after  all." 

"What's  happened  to  the  master?"  said  Nanon,  entering  her 
mistress's  room  to  light  the  fire.  "First  place,  he  said,  'Good- 
morning;  happy  New  Year,  you  big  fool!  Go  and  light  my 
wife's  fire,  she's  cold;'  and  then,  didn't  I  feel  silly  when  he  held 
out  his  hand  and  gave  me  a  six-franc  piece,  which  isn't  worn 
one  bit?  Just  look  at  it,  madame!  Oh,  the  kind  man!  He  is 
a  good  man,  that's  a  fact.  There  are  some  people  who  the 
older  they  get  the  harder  they  grow;  but  he,  —  why  he's 
getting  soft  and  improving  with  time,  like  your  ratafia!  He  is 
a  good,  good  man  —  " 

The  secret  of  Grandet's  joy  lay  in  the  complete  success  of  his 
speculation.    [One  of  his  speculations  in  government  securities.]] 

The  family  did  not  breakfast  that  day  until  ten  o'clock. 

"Your  father  will  not  ask  to  see  your  gold  downstairs," 
said  Madame  Grandet  as  they  got  back  from  Mass.  "You 
must  pretend  to  be  very  chilly.  We  may  have  time  to  replace 
the  treasure  before  your  fete-day." 

Grandet  came  down  the  staircase  thinking  of  his  splendid 
speculation  in  government  securities,  and  wondering  how  he 
could  metamorphose  his  Parisian  silver  into  solid  gold;  he  was 
making  up  his  mind  to  invest  in  this  way  everything  he  could 
lay  hands  on  until  the  Funds  should  reach  a  par  value.  Fatal 
revery  for  Eugenie!  As  soon  as  he  came  in,  the  two  women 
wished  him  a  happy  New  Year,  —  his  daughter  by  putting  her 


358  EUGENIE  AND  OLD   GRANDET 

arms  round  his  neck  and  caressing  him;  Madame  Grandet 
gravely  and  with  dignity. 

"Ha!  ha!  my  child,"  he  said,  kissing  his  daughter  on  both 
cheeks.  "  I  work  for  you,  don't  you  see?  I  think  of  your  hap- 
piness. Must  have  money  to  be  happy.  Without  money 
there's  not  a  particle  of  happiness.  Here!  there's  a  new  napo- 
leon for  you.  I  sent  to  Paris  for  it.  On  my  word  of  honor, 
it's  all  the  gold  I  have;  you  are  the  only  one  that  has  got  any 
gold.     I  want  to  see  your  gold,  little  one." 

"Oh!  it  is  too  cold;  let  us  have  breakfast,"  answered  Eugenie. 

"Well,  after  breakfast,  then;  it  will  help  the  digestion. 
That  fat  des  Grassins  sent  me  the  pate.  Eat  as  much  as  you 
like,  my  children,  it  cost  nothing.  Des  Grassins  is  getting  along 
very  well.  I  am  satisfied  with  him.  The  old  fish  is  doing 
Charles  a  good  service,  and  gratis  too.  He  is  making  a  very  good 
settlement  of  that  poor  deceased  Grandet's  business.  Hoo! 
hoo!"  he  muttered,  with  his  mouth  full,  after  a  pause,  "how 
good  it  is!  Eat  some,  wife;  that  will  feed  you  for  at  least  two 
days." 

"I  am  not  hungry.     I  am  very, poorly;   you  know  that." 

"Ah,  bah!  you  can  stuff  yourself  as  full  as  you  please  without 
danger,  you're  a  Bertelliere;  they  are  all  hearty.  You  are 
a  bit  yellow,  that's  true;  but  I  like  yellow,  myself." 

The  expectation  of  ignominous  and  public  death  is  perhaps  less 
horrible  to  a  condemned  criminal  than  the  anticipation  of  what 
was  coming  after  breakfast  to  Madame  Grandet  and  Eugenie. 
The  more  gleefully  the  old  man  talked  and  ate,  the  more  their 
hearts  shrank  within  them.  The  daughter,  however,  had  an 
inward  prop  at  this  crisis,  —  she  gathered  strength  through  love. 

"For  him!  for  him!"  she  cried  within  her,  "I  would  die  ?, 
thousand  deaths." 

At  the  thought,  she  shot  a  glance  at  her  mother  which  flamed 
with  courage. 

"Clear  away,"  said  Grandet  to  Nanon  when,  about  eleven 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  359 

o'clock,  breakfast  was  over,  "but  leave  the  table.  We  can 
spread  your  little  treasure  upon  it,"  he  said,  looking  at  Eugenie. 
"Little?  Faith!  no;  it  isn't  little.  You  possess,  in  actual 
value,  five  thousand  nine  hundred  and  fifty-nine  francs  and  the 
forty  I  gave  you  just  now.  That  makes  six  thousand  francs, 
less  one.  Well,  now  see  here,  little  one !  I  '11  give  you  that  one 
franc  to  make  up  the  round  number.  Hey!  what  are  you 
listening  for,  Nanon?  Mind  your  own  business;  go  and  do 
your  work. ' ' 

Nanon  disappeared. 

"Now  listen,  Eugenie:  you  must  give  me  back  your  gold. 
You  won't  refuse  your  father,  my  little  girl,  hein?" 

The  two  women  were  dumb. 

"I  have  no  gold  myself.  I  had  some,  but  it  is  all  gone.  I'll 
give  you  in  return  six  thousand  francs  in  livres,  and  you  are  to 
put  them  just  where  I  tell  you.  You  mustn't  think  anything 
more  about  your  'dozen.'  When  I  marry  you  (which  will  be 
soon)  I  shall  get  you  a  husband  who  can  give  you  the  finest 
'dozen'  ever  seen  in  the  provinces.  Now  attend  to  me,  little 
girl.  There's  a  fine  chance  for  you;  you  can  put  your  six 
thousand  francs  into  government  funds,  and  you  will  receive 
every  six  months  nearly  two  hundred  francs  interest,  without 
taxes,  or  repairs,  or  frost,  or  hail,  or  floods,  or  anything  else  to 
swallow  up  the  money.  Perhaps  you  don't  like  to  part  with 
your  gold,  hey,  my  girl?  Never  mind,  bring  it  to  me  all  the  same. 
I  '11  get  you  some  more  like  it,  —  like  those  Dutch  coins  and 
the  portugaises,  the  rupees  of  Mogul,  and  the  genovines,  —  I  '11 
give  you  some  more  on  your  fete-days,  and  in  three  years  you  '11 
have  got  back  half  your  little  treasure.  What's  that  you  say? 
Look  up,  now.  Come,  go  and  get  it,  the  precious  metal.  You 
ought  to  kiss  me  on  the  eyelids  for  telling  you  the  secrets  and 
the  mysteries  of  the  life  and  death  of  money.  Yes,  silver  and 
gold  live  and  swarm  like  men;  they  come,  and  go,  and  sweat, 
and  multiply  —  " 


360  EUGENIE  AND  OLD   GRANDET 

Eugenie  rose;  but  after  making  a  few  steps  towards  the  door 
she  turned  abruptly,  looked  her  father  in  the  face,  and  said, 

"I  have  not  got  my  gold." 

"You  have  not  got  your  gold!"  cried  Grandet,  starting  up 
erect,  like  a  horse  that  hears  a  cannon  fired  beside  him. 

"No,  I  have  not  got  it." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Eugenie." 

"No." 

"By  the  shears  of  my  father!" 

Whenever  the  old  man  swore  that  oath  the  rafters  trembled. 

"Holy  Virgin!     Madame  is  turning  pale,"  cried  Nanon. 

"Grandet,  your  anger  will  kill  me,"  said  the  poor  mother. 

"Ta,  ta,  ta,  ta!  nonsense;  you  never  die  in  your  family! 
Eugenie,  what  have  you  done  with  your  gold?"  he  cried,  rushing 
upon  her. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  daughter,  falling  at  Madame  Grandet's 
knees,  "my  mother  is  ill.     Look  at  her;  do  not  kill  her." 

Grandet  was  frightened  by  the  pallor  which  overspread  his 
wife's  face,  usually  so  yellow. 

"Nanon,  help  me  to  bed,"  said  the  poor  woman  in  a  feeble 
voice;  "I  am  dying  —  " 

Nanon  gave  her  mistress  an  arm,  Eugenie  gave  her  another; 
but  it  was  only  with  infinite  difficulty  that  they  could  get  her 
upstairs,  she  fell  with  exhaustion  at  every  step.  Grandet 
remained  alone.  However,  in  a  few  moments  he  went  up  six 
or  eight  stairs  and  called  out,  — 

"Eugenie,  when  your  mother  is  in  bed,  come  down." 

"Yes,  father." 

She  soon  came,  after  reassuring  her  mother. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Grandet,  "you  will  now  tell  me  what 
you  have  done  with  your  gold." 

"My  father,  if  you  make  me  presents  of  which  I  am  not  the 
sole  mistress,  take  them  back,"  she  answered  coldly,  picking 
up  the  napoleon  from  the  chimney-piece  and  offering  it  to  him. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  361 

Grandet  seized  the  coin  and  slipped  it  into  his  breeches  pocket. 

"I  shall  certainly  never  give  you  anything  again.  Not  so 
much  as  that!"  he  said,  clicking  his  thumb-nail  against  a  front 
tooth.  "Do  you  dare  to  despise  your  father?  Have  you  no 
confidence  in  him?  Don't  you  know  what  a  father  is?  If 
he  is  nothing  for  you,  he  is  nothing  at  all.     Where  is  your  gold?" 

"Father,  I  love  and  respect  you,  in  spite  of  your  anger;  but 
I  humbly  ask  you  to  remember  that  I  am  twenty-three  years 
old.  You  have  told  me  often  that  I  have  attained  my  majority, 
and  I  do  not  forget  it.  I  have  used  my  money  as  I  chose  to  use 
it,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  it  was  put  to  a  good  use  — " 

"What  use?" 

"That  is  an  inviolable  secret,"  she  answered.  "Have  you 
no  secrets?" 

"I  am  the  head  of  the  family;  I  have  my  own  affairs." 

"And  this  is  mine." 

"It  must  be  something  bad  if  you  can't  tell  it  to  your  father, 
Mademoiselle  Grandet." 

"It  is  good,  and  I  cannot  tell  it  to  my  father." 

"At  least  you  can  tell  me  when  you  parted  with  your  gold?" 

Eugenie  made  a  negative  motion  with  her  head. 

"You  had  it  on  your  birthday,  hein?" 

She  grew  as  crafty  through  love  as  her  father  was  through 
avarice,  and  reiterated  the  negative  sign. 

"Was  there  ever  such  obstinacy!  It's  a  theft,"  cried  Grandet, 
his  voice  going  up  in  a  crescendo  which  gradually  echoed  through 
the  house.  "What!  here,  in  my  own  home,  under  my  very 
eyes,  somebody  has  taken  your  gold!  —  the  only  gold  we  have! 
—  and  I  'm  not  to  know  who  has  got  it !  Gold  is  a  precious 
thing.  Virtuous  girls  go  wrong  sometimes,  and  give  —  I  don't 
know  what;  they  do  it  among  the  great  people,  and  even 
among  the  bourgeoisie.  But  give  their  gold!  —  for  you  have 
given  it  to  some  one,  hein?  —  " 

Eugenie  was  silent  and  impassive. 


362  EUGENIE  AND  OLD   GRANDET 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  daughter?  Is  it  possible  that  I  am 
your  father?  If  you  have  invested  it  anywhere,  you  must  have 
a  receipt  —  " 

"Was  I  free  —  yes  or  no  —  to  do  what  I  would  with  my  own? 
Was  it  not  mine?" 

"You  are  a  child." 

"Of  age." 

Dumbfounded  by  his  daughter's  logic,  Grandet  turned  pale 
and  stamped  and  swore.  When  at  last  he  found  wordsj  he  cried : 
"Serpent!  Cursed  girl!  Ah,  deceitful  creature!  You  know 
I  love  you,  and  you  take  advantage  of  it.  She  'd  cut  her  father's 
throat!  Good  God!  you've  given  our  fortune  to  that  ne'er- 
do-well,  —  that  dandy  with  morocco  boots !  By  the  shears 
of  my  father!  I  can't  disinherit  you,  but  I  curse  you,  —  you 
and  your  cousin  and  your  children!  Nothing  good  will  come 
of  it!  Do  you  hear!  If  it  was  to  Charles  —  but,  no;  it's 
impossible.     What!  has  that  wretched  fellow  robbed  me? — " 

He  looked  at  his  daughter,  who  continued  cold  and  silent. 

"She  won't  stir;  she  won't  flinch!  She's  more  Grandet  than 
I'm  Grandet!  Ha!  you  have  not  given  your  gold  for  nothing? 
Come,  speak  the  truth!" 

Eugenie  looked  at  her  father  with  a  sarcastic  expression 
that  stung  him. 

"Eugenie,  you  are  here,  in  my  house,  —  in  your  father's 
house.  If  you  wish  to  stay  here,  you  must  submit  yourself  to 
me.  The  priests  tell  you  to  obey  me."  Eugenie  bowed  her 
head.  "You  affront  me  in  all  I  hold  most  dear.  I  will  not  see 
you  again  till  you  submit.  Go  to  your  chamber.  You  will 
stay  there  till  I  give  you  permission  to  leave  it.  Nanon  will 
bring  you  bread  and  water.     You  hear  me  —  go!" 


XXVII.   FRANgOIS  VILLON1 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

[The  first  story  of  importance  which  Stevenson  wrote  was  A  Lodging  for  the 
Night,  a  tale  about  the  poet  and  house-breaker,  Francois  Villon.  Just  before  he 
wrote  this  story  —  perhaps  his  best  —  he  had  been  studying  the  life  and  writings 
of  Villon  and  had  written  an  essay  on  the  poet's  character.  We  therefore  print 
here  enough  of  the  essay  to  show  how  Stevenson's  serious  treatment  of  an  idea  in 
biography  is  the  basis  for  his  still  more  thorough  and  serious  treatment  of  an  idea 
in  fiction.  The  essay  is  composed  of  a  number  of  characterizing  situations.  The 
story  is  a  logically  imagined  marking  incident.^ 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  revolutions  in  literary  history 
is  the  sudden  bull's-eye  light  cast  by  M.  Longnon  on  the  obscure 
existence  of  Francois  Villon.  His  book  is  not  remarkable  merely 
as  a  chapter  of  biography  exhumed  after  four  centuries.  To 
readers  of  the  poet  it  will  recall,  with  a  flavor  of  satire,  that 
characteristic  passage  in  which  he  bequeaths  his  spectacles  — 
with  a  humorous  reservation  of  the  case  —  to  the  hospital  for 
blind  paupers  known  as  the  Fifteen-Score.  Thus  equipped,  let 
the  blind  paupers  go  and  separate  the  good  from  the  bad  in  the 
cemetery  of  the  Innocents!  For  his  own  part  the  poet  can  see 
no  distinction.  Much  have  the  dead  people  made  of  their 
advantages.  What  does  it  matter  now  that  they  have  lain  in 
state  beds  and  nourished  portly  bodies  upon  cakes  and  cream! 
Here  they  all  lie,  to  be  trodden  in  the  mud;  the  large  estate  and 
the  small,  sounding  virtue  and  adroit  or  powerful  vice,  in  very 
much  the  same  condition;  and  a  bishop  not  to  be  distinguished 
from  a  lamplighter  with  even  the  strongest  spectacles. 

["Such,"  says  Stevenson,  "was  Villon's  cynical  philosophy."  He  shows  how 
Villon,  pool ,  dependent,  well  enough  educated,  yet  lacking  any  sense  of  obligation  to 

1  Reprinted  from  Studies  of  Men  and  Books. 


364  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

his  benefactors,  was  early  initiated  into  the  ways  of  the  crooks  of  the  student  quarter 
in  Paris.  So  the  poet  begins  to  lead  that  life  of  thievery  that  he  celebrates  in  the 
ballads.] » 

And  yet  it  is  not  as  a  thief,  but  as  a  homicide,  that  he  makes 
his  first  appearance  before  angry  justice.  One  June  5,  1455, 
when  he  was  about  twenty-four,  and  had  been  Master  of  Arts 
for  a  matter  of  three  years,  we  behold  him  for  the  first  time 
quite  definitely.  Angry  justice  had,  as  it  were,  photographed 
him  in  the  act  of  his  homicide;  and  M.  Longnon,  rummaging 
among  old  deeds,  has  turned  up  the  negative  and  printed  it 
off  for  our  instruction.  Villon  had  been  supping  —  copiously 
we  may  believe  —  and  sat  on  a  stone  bench  in  front  of  the  Church 
of  St.  Benoit,  in  company  with  a  priest  called  Gilles  and  a  woman 
of  the  name  of  Isabeau.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  a  mighty  late 
hour  for  the  period,  and  evidently  a  fine  summer's  night.  Mas- 
ter Francois  carried  a  mantle,  like  a  prudent  man,  to  keep  him 
from  the  dews  (serain),  and  had  a  sword  below  it  dangling  from 
his  girdle.  So  these  three  dallied  in  front  of  St.  Benoit,  taking 
their  pleasure  (pour  soy  esbatre).  Suddenly  there  arrived 
upon  the  scene  a  priest,  Philippe  Chermoye  or  Sermaise,  also 
with  a  sword  and  cloak,  and  accompanied  by  one  Master  Jehan 
le  Mardi.  Sermaise,  according  to  Villon's  account,  which  is 
all  we  have  to  go  upon,  came  up  blustering  and  denying  God; 
as  Villon  rose  to  make  room  for  him  upon  the  bench,  thrust  him 
rudely  back  into  his  place;  and  finally  drew  his  sword  and 
cut  open  his  lower  lip,  by  what  I  should  imagine  was  a  very 
clumsy  stroke.  Up  to  this  point,  Villon  professes  to  have  been 
a  model  of  courtesy,  even  of  feebleness;  and  the  brawl,  in  his 
version,  reads  like  the  fable  of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb.  But  now 
the  lamb  was  roused;  he  drew  his  sword,  stabbed  Sermaise  in 
the  groin,  knocked  him  on  the  head  with  a  big  stone  and  then, 
leaving  him  to  his  fate,  went  away  to  have  his  own  lip  doctored 

1  These  passages  from  Stevenson  exist  in  much  the  same  form  in  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson:   How  to  Know  Him,  by  Richard  Ashley  Rice.     Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  365 

by  a  barber  of  the  name  of  Fouquet.  In  one  version,  he  says 
that  Gilles,  Isabeau,  and  Le  Mardi  ran  away  at  the  first  high 
words,  and  that  he  and  Sermaise  had  it  out  alone;  in  another, 
Le  Mardi  is  represented  as  returning  and  wresting  Villon's 
sword  from  him:  the  reader  may  please  himself.  Sermaise 
was  picked  up,  lay  all  that  night  in  the  prison  of  St.  Benoit, 
where  he  was  examined  by  an  official  of  the  Chatelet  and  ex- 
pressly pardoned  Villon,  and  died  on  the  following  Saturday 
in  the  Hotel  Dieu. 

This,  as  I  have  said,  was  in  June.  Not  before  January  of  the 
next  year  could  Villon  extract  a  pardon  from  the  king;  but 
while  his  hand  was  in,  he  got  two.  One  is  for  "Francois  des 
Loges,  alias  (autrement  dit)  de  Villon;"  and  the  other  runs  in 
the  name  of  Francois  de  Montcorvier.  Nay,  it  appears  there 
was  a  further  complication;  for  in  the  narrative  of  the  first  of 
these  documents,  it  is  mentioned  that  he  passed  himself  of!  upon 
Fouquet,  the  barber-surgeon,  as  one  Michel  Mouton.  M. 
Longnon  has  a  theory  that  this  unhappy  accident  with  Sermaise 
was  the  cause  of  Villon's  subsequent  irregularities;  and  that  up 
to  that  moment  he  had  been  the  pink  of  good  behavior.  But 
the  matter  has  to  my  eyes  a  more  dubious  air.  A  pardon  neces- 
sary for  Des  Loges  and  another  for  Montcorbier?  and  these  two 
the  same  person?  and  one  or  both  of  them  known  by  the  alias 
of  Villon,  however  honestly  come  by?  and  lastly,  in  the  heat  of 
the  moment,  a  fourth  name  thrown  out  with  an  assured  coun- 
tenance? A  ship  is  not  to  be  trusted  that  sails  under  so  many 
colors.  This  is  not  the  simple  bearing  of  innocence.  No  —  the 
young  master  was  already  treading  crooked  paths;  already,  he 
would  start  and  blench  at  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  with  the 
look  we  know  so  well  in  the  face  of  Hogarth's  Idle  Apprentice; 
already  in  the  blue  devils,  he  would  see  Henry  Cousin,  the  ex- 
ecutor of  high  justice,  going  in  dolorous  procession  toward 
Montfaucon,  and  hear  the  wind  and  the  birds  crying  around 
Paris  gibbet. 


366  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

[This  is  a  sample  exploit;  and  here  is  another  which  began  at  a  memorable  sup- 
per at  the  Mule  Tavern,  in  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mathurin.  One  of  Villon's 
crew,  Tabary,  had  ordered  the  supper.    Others  joined  them  at  the  feast] 

This  supper  party  was  to  be  his  first  introduction  to  De 
Cayeux  and  Petit- Jehan,  which  was  probably  a  matter  of  some 
concern  to  the  poor  man's  muddy  wits;  in  the  sequel,  at  least, 
he  speaks  of  both  with  an  undisguised  respect,  based  on  profes- 
sional inferiority  in  the  matter  of  picklocks.  Dom  Nicolas, 
a  Picardy  monk,  was  the  fifth  and  last  at  table.  When  supper 
had  been  despatched  and  fairly  washed  down,  we  may  suppose, 
with  white  Baigneux  or  red  Beaune,  which  were  favorite  wines 
among  the  fellowship,  Tabary  was  solemnly  sworn  over  to  se- 
crecy on  the  night's  performances;  and  the  party  left  the  Mule 
and  proceeded  to  an  unoccupied  house  belonging  to  Robert  de 
Saint-Simon.  This,  over  a  low  wall,  they  entered  without 
difficulty.  All  but  Tabary  took  off  their  upper  garments; 
a  ladder  was  found  and  applied  to  the  high  wall  which  separated 
Saint-Simon's  house  from  the  court  of  the  College  of  Navarre; 
the  four  fellows  in  their  shirt-sleeves  (as  we  might  say)  clambered 
over  in  a  twinkling:  and  Master  Guy  Tabary  remained  alone 
beside  the  overcoats.  From  the  court  the  burglars  made  their 
way  into  the  vestry  of  the  chapel,  where  they  found  a  large  chest, 
strengthened  with  iron  bands  and  closed  with  four  locks.  One 
of  these  locks  they  picked,  and  then,  by  levering  up  the  corner, 
forced  the  other  three.  Inside  was  a  small  coffer,  of  walnut 
wood,  also  barred  with  iron,  but  fastened  with  only  three  locks, 
which  were  all  comfortably  picked  by  the  way  of  the  keyhole. 
In  the  walnut  coffer  —  a  joyous  sight  by  our  thieves'  lantern  — 
were  five  hundred  crowns  of  gold.  There  was  some  talk  of 
opening  the  aumries,  where,  if  they  had  only  known,  a  booty 
eight  or  nine  times  greater  lay  ready  to  their  hand,  but  one  of 
the  party  (I  have  a  humorous  suspicion  it  was  Dom  Nicolas, 
the  Picardy  monk)  hurried  them  away.  It  was  ten  o'clock 
when  they  mounted  the  ladder;   it  was  about  midnight  before 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  367 

Tabary  beheld  them  coming  back.  To  him  they  gave  ten  crowns 
and  promised  a  share  of  a  two-crown  dinner  on  the  morrow; 
whereat  we  may  suppose  his  mouth  watered.  In  the  course 
of  time,  he  got  wind  of  the  real  amount  of  their  booty  and 
understood  how  scurvily  he  had  been  used;  but  he  seems  to 
have  borne  no  malice.  How  could  he,  against  such  superb 
operators  as  Petit- Jehan  and  De  Cayeux;  or  a  person  like 
Villon,  who  could  have  made  a  new  improper  romance  out  of 
his  own  head,  instead  of  merely  copying  an  old  one  with  mechan- 
ical right  hand. 

[Such  affairs  are  all  one  knows  of  Villon's  history.  His  temperament  is  illus- 
trated by  them  and  his  poems,  especially  by  the  Large  Testament,  "that  admirable 
and  despicable  performance."  The  date  of  this  work  "is  the  last  date  in  the  poet's 
biography,"  Stevenson  remarks.  "How  or  when  he  died,  whether  decently  in  bed 
or  trussed  up  to  a  gallows,  remains  a  riddle  for  foolhardy  commentators."] 


XXVIII.   A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT1 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

[j'Any  one  who  may  have  tried  it  will  tell  us  that  to  make  a  successful  short 
story  out  of  the  same  materials  with  which  he  has  constructed  a  critical  essay,  to 
turn  suddenly  from  appreciator  into  creator,  is  a  very  rare  gift.  Certainly  it 
implies  an  intimacy  with  the  subject,  a  rapid  and  thorough  absorption  of  detail, 
that  most  students  of  literature  and  biography  never  even  dream  of  striving  for. 
Yet  all  that  this  comes  to,  if  viewed  from  a  slightly  different  angle,  is  a  really  sym- 
pathetic comprehension  of  a  man.  It  would  be  a  thesis  which  I  should  like  to 
defend  that  anybody  who  could  write  an  essay  as  thorough  as  Stevenson's,  could 
also  write  a  story  as  vivid  as  A  Lodging  for  the  Night.  My  ground  of  argument 
would  be  that  the  story  and  the  essay  have  their  essential  points  in  common;  a 
personal  realization  of  Villon's  humor,  a  perfectly  suggested  local  background,  and 
the  taste  for  the  sort  of  moral  frame  which  best  suits  the  portrait.  The  essay 
begins  with  a  whimsical  illustration  of  Villon's  philosophy  of  life  and  death.  The 
story  begins  with  an  illustration  of  the  actual  effect  of  death  on  Villon's  imagina- 
tion while  he  struggles  to  let  his  whimsical  philosophy  reassert  itself.  The  essay 
proceeds  to  detail  a  set  of  his  escapades  and  to  draw  the  moral.  The  story  selects 
one  typical  escapade,  embellishes  it  with  moralized  dialogue  to  suit,  and  then, 
like  the  essay,  thrusts  the  hero  forth  into  the  uncertainty  of  his  vagabond  future." 
—  Quoted  from  Robert  Louis  Stevenson:  How  to  Know  Him,  by  Richard  Ashley 
Rice.] 

It  was  late  in  November,  1456.  The  snow  fell  over  Paris 
with  rigorous,  relentless  persistence;  sometimes  the  wind  made 
a  sally  and  scattered  it  in  flying  vortices;  sometimes  there  was 
a  lull,  and  flake  after  flake  descended  out  of  the  black  night 
air,  silent,  circuitous,  interminable.  To  poor  people,  looking 
up  under  moist  eyebrows,  it  seemed  a  wonder  where  it  all 
came  from.  Master  Francis  Villon  had  propounded  an  alter- 
native that  afternoon  at  a  tavern  window:  was  it  only  Pagan 
Jupiter  plucking  geese  upon  Olympus?  or  were  the  holy  angels 
moulting?  He  was  only  a  poor  Master  of  Arts,  he  went  on; 
and  as  the  question  somewhat  touched  upon  divinity,  he  durst 
not  venture  to  conclude.     A  silly  old  priest  from  Montargis, 

1  Reprinted  from  New  Arabian  Nights. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  369 

who  was  among  the  company,  treated  the  young  rascal  to  a 
bottle  of  wine  in  honor  of  the  jest  and  grimaces  with  which  it 
was  accompanied,  and  swore  on  his  own  white  beard  that  he  had 
been  just  such  another  irreverent  dog  when  he  was  Villon's  age. 

The  air  was  raw  and  pointed,  but  not  far  below  freezing; 
and  the  flakes  were  large,  damp,  and  adhesive.  The  whole  city 
was  sheeted  up.  An  army  might  have  marched  from  end  to 
end  and  not  a  footfall  given  the  alarm.  If  there  were  any 
belated  birds  in  heaven,  they  saw  the  island  like  a  large  white 
patch,  and  the  bridges  like  slim  white  spars,  on  the  black  ground 
of  the  river.  High  up  overhead  the  snow  settled  among  the 
tracery  of  the  cathedral  towers.  Many  a  niche  was  drifted  full; 
many  a  statue  wore  a  long  white  bonnet  on  its  grotesque  or 
sainted  head.  The  gargoyles  had  been  transformed  into  great 
false  noses,  drooping  towards  the  point.  The  crockets  were 
like  upright  pillows,  swollen  on  one  side.  In  the  intervals 
of  the  wind,  there  was  a  dull  sound  of  dripping  about  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  church. 

The  cemetery  of  St.  John  had  taken  its  own  share  of  the 
snow.  All  the  graves  were  decently  covered;  tall  white  house- 
tops stood  around  in  grave  array;  worthy  burghers  were  long 
ago  in  bed,  be-nigh t-capped  like  their  domiciles;  there  was  no 
light  in  all  the  neighborhood  but  a  little  peep  from  a  lamp 
that  hung  swinging  in  the  church  choir,  and  tossed  the  shadows 
to  and  fro  in  time  to  its  oscillations.  The  clock  was  hard 
on  ten  when  the  patrol  went  by  with  halberds  and  a  lantern, 
beating  their  hands;  and  they  saw  nothing  suspicious  about  the 
cemetery  of  St.  John. 

Yet  there  was  a  small  house,  backed  up  against  the  cemetery 
wall,  which  was  still  awake,  and  awake  to  evil  purpose,  in  that 
snoring  district.  There  was  not  much  to  betray  it  from  without ; 
only  a  stream  of  warm  vapor  from  the  chimney-top,  a  patch 
where  the  snow  melted  on  the  roof,  and  a  few  half-obliterated 
footprints   at    the    door.     But    within,    behind    the   shuttered 


370  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

windows,  Master  Francis  Villon  the  poet,  and  some  of  the  thiev- 
ish crew  with  whom  he  consorted  were  keeping  the  night  alive 
and  passing  round  the  bottle. 

A  great  pile  of  living  embers  diffused  a  strong  and  ruddy 
glow  from  the  arched  chimney.  Before  this  straddled  Dom 
Nicolas,  the  Picardy  monk,  with  his  skirts  picked  up  and  his 
fat  legs  bared  to  the  comfortable  warmth.  His  dilated  shadow 
cut  the  room  in  half;  and  the  firelight  only  escaped  on  either  side 
of  his  broad  person,  and  in  a  little  pool  between  his  outspread 
feet.  His  face  had  the  beery,  bruised  appearance  of  the  con- 
tinual drinker's;  it  was  covered  with  a  network  of  congested 
veins,  purple  in  ordinary  circumstances,  but  now  pale  violet, 
for  even  with  his  back  to  the  fire  the  cold  pinched  him  on  the 
other  side.  His  cowl  had  half  fallen  back,  and  made  a  strange 
excrescence  on  either  side  of  his  bull  neck.  So  he  straddled, 
grumbling,  and  cut  the  room  in  half  with  the  shadow  of  his 
portly  frame. 

On  the  right,  Villon  and  Guy  Tabary  were  huddled  together 
over  a  scrap  of  parchment;  Villon  making  a  ballade  which  he 
was  to  call  the  Ballade  of  Roast  Fish,  and  Tabary  spluttering 
admiration  at  his  shoulder.  The  poet  was  a  rag  of  a  man, 
dark,  little,  and  lean,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  thin  black  locks. 
He  carried  his  four-and- twenty  years  with  feverish  animation. 
Greed  had  made  folds  about  his  eyes,  evil  smiles  had  puckered 
his  mouth.  The  wolf  and  pig  struggled  together  in  his  face. 
It  was  an  eloquent,  sharp,  ugly,  earthly  countenance.  His 
hands  were  small  and  prehensile,  with  fingers  knotted  like  a 
cord;  and  they  were  continually  flickering  in  front  of  him  in 
violent  and  expressive  pantomime.  As  for  Tabary,  a  broad, 
complacent,  admiring  imbecility  breathed  from  his  squash 
nose  and  slobbering  lips:  he  had  become  a  thief,  just  as  he  might 
have  become  the  most  decent  of  burgesses,  by  the  imperious 
chance  that  rules  the  lives  of  human  geese  and  human  donkeys. 

At  the  monk's  other  hand,  Montigny  and  Thevenin  Pensete 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  371 

played  a  game  of  chance.  About  the  first  there  clung  some 
flavor  of  good  birth  and  training,  as  about  a  fallen  angel;  some- 
thing long,  lithe,  and  courtly  in  the  person;  something  aquiline 
and  darkling  in  the  face.  Thevenin,  poor  soul,  was  in  great 
feather:  he  had  done  a  good  stroke  of  knavery  that  afternoon 
in  the  Faubourg  St.  Jacques,  and  all  night  he  had  been  gaining 
from  Montigny.  A  flat  smile  illuminated  his  face;  his  bald 
head  shone  rosily  in  a  garland  of  red  curls;  his  little  protuberant 
stomach  shook  with  silent  chucklings  as  he  swept  in  his  gains. 

"Doubles  or  quits?"  said  Thevenin. 

Montigny  nodded  grimly. 

"Some  may  prefer  to  dine  in  state,"  wrote  Villon,  "On  bread 
and  cheese  on  silver  plate.     Or,  or  —  help  me  out,  Guido!" 

Tabary  giggled. 

"Or  parsley  on  a  golden  dish"  scribbled  the  poet. 

The  wind  was  freshening  without;  it  drove  the  snow  before 
it,  and  sometimes  raised  its  voice  in  a  victorious  whoop,  and  made 
sepulchral  grumblings  in  the  chimney.  The  cold  was  growing 
sharper  as  the  night  went  on.  Villon,  protruding  his  lips, 
imitated  the  gust  with  something  between  a  whistle  and  a  groan. 
It  was  an  eerie,  uncomfortable  talent  of  the  poet's,  much  de- 
tested by  the  Picardy  monk. 

"Can't  you  hear  it  rattle  in  the  gibbet?"  said  Villon.  "They 
are  all  dancing  the  devil's  jig  on  nothing,  up  there.  You  may 
dance,  my  gallants,  you'll  be  none  the  warmer!  Whew!  what 
a  gust!  Down  went  somebody  just  now!  A  medlar  the  fewer 
on  the  three-legged  medlar-tree !  —  I  say,  Dom  Nicolas,  it  '11 
be  cold  to-night  on  the  St.  Denis  Road?"  he  asked. 

Dom  Nicolas  winked  both  his  big  eyes,  and  seemed  to  choke 
upon  his  Adam's  apple.  Montfaucon,  the  great  grisly  Paris 
gibbet,  stood  hard  by  the  St.  Denis  Road,  and  the  pleasantry 
touched  him  on  the  raw.  As  for  Tabary,  he  laughed  immoder- 
ately over  the  medlars;  he  had  never  heard  anything  more 
light-hearted;  and  he  held  his  sides  and  crowed.     Villon  fetched 


372  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

him  a  fillip  on  the  nose,  which  turned  his  mirth  into  an  attack 
of  coughing. 

"Oh,  stop  that  row,"  said  Villon,  "and  think  of  rhymes  to 
'fish.'" 

"Doubles  or  quits,"  said  Montigny  doggedly. 

"With  all  my  heart,"  quoth  Thevenin. 

"Is  there  any  more  in  that  bottle?"  asked  the  monk. 

"Open  another,"  said  Villon.  "How  do  you  ever  hope  to 
fill  that  big  hogshead,  your  body,  with  little  things  like  bottles? 
And  how  do  you  expect  to  get  to  heaven?  How  many  angels, 
do  you  fancy,  can  be  spared  to  carry  up  a  single  monk  from 
Picardy?  Or  do  you  think  yourself  another  Elias  —  and  they'll 
send  the  coach  for  you?" 

"  Hominibus  impossibile"  replied  the  monk  as  he  filled  "his 
glass. 

Tabary  was  in  ecstasies. 

Villon  filliped  his  nose  again. 

"Laugh  at  my  jokes,  if  you  like,"  he  said. 

"It  was  very  good,"  objected  Tabary. 

Villon  made  a  face  at  him.  "Think  of  rhymes  to  'fish,'" 
he  said.  "What  have  you  to  do  with  Latin?  You'll  wish  you 
knew  none  of  it  at  the  great  assizes,  when  the  devil  calls  for 
Guido  Tabary,  clericus  —  the  devil  with  the  hump-back  and  red- 
hot  finger-nails.  Talking  of  the  devil,"  he  added  in  a  whisper, 
"look  at  Montigny!" 

All  three  peered  covertly  at  the  gamester.  He  did  not  seem 
to  be  enjoying  his  luck.  His  mouth  was  a  little  to  a  side; 
one  nostril  nearly  shut,  and  the  other  much  inflated.  The 
black  dog  was  on  his  back,  as  people  say,  in  terrifying 
nursery  metaphor;  and  he  breathed  hard  under  the  gruesome 
burden. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  could  knife  him,"  whispered  Tabary,  with 
round  eyes. 

The  monk  shuddered,  and  turned  his  face  and  spread  his  open 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  373 

hands  to  the  red  embers.  It  was  the  cold  that  thus  affected 
Dom  Nicolas,  and  not  any  excess  of  moral  sensibility. 

"Come,  now,"  said  Villon  —  "about  this  ballade.  How  does 
it  run  so  far?"  And  beating  time  with  his  hand,  he  read  it 
aloud  to  Tabary. 

They  were  interrupted  at  the  fourth  rhyme  by  a  brief  and 
fatal  movement  among  the  gamesters.  The  round  was  com- 
pleted, and  Thevenin  was  just  opening  his  mouth  to  claim 
another  victory,  when  Montigny  leaped  up,  swift  as  an  adder, 
and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  The  blow  took  effect  before  he 
had  time  to  utter  a  cry,  before  he  had  time  to  move.  A  tremor 
or  two  convulsed  his  frame;  his  hands  opened  and  shut,  his 
heels  rattled  on  the  floor;  then  his  head  rolled  backward  over 
one  shoulder  with  the  eyes  wide  open,  and  Thevenin  Pensete's 
spirit  had  returned  to  Him  who  made  it. 

Every  one  sprang  to  his  feet;  but  the  business  was  over  in 
two  twos.  The  four  living  fellows  looked  at  each  other  in 
rather  a  ghastly  fashion;  the  dead  man  contemplating  a  corner 
of  the  roof  with  a  singular  and  ugly  leer. 

"My  God!"  said  Tabary;    and  he  began  to  pray  in  Latin. 

Villon  broke  out  into  hysterical  laughter.  He  came  a  step 
forward  and  ducked  a  ridiculous  bow  at  Thevenin,  and  laughed 
still  louder.  Then  he  sat  down  suddenly,  all  of  a  heap,  upon 
a  stool,  and  continued  laughing  bitterly  as  though  he  would 
shake  himself  to  pieces. 

Montigny  recovered  his  composure  first. 

"Let's  see  what  he  has  about  him,"  he  remarked,  and  he 
picked  the  dead  man's  pockets  with  a  practiced  hand,  and 
divided  the  money  into  four  equal  portions  on  the  table.  "There's 
for  you,"  he  said. 

The  monk  received  his  share  with  a  deep  sigh  and  a  single 
stealthy  glance  at  the  dead  Thevenin,  who  was  beginning  to  sink 
into  himself  and  topple  sideways  off  the  chair. 

"We're  all  in  for  it,"  cried  Villon,  swallowing  his  mirth. 


374  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

"It's  a  hanging  job  for  every  man  jack  of  us  that's  here  —  not 
to  speak  of  those  who  aren't."  He  made  a  shocking  gesture  in 
the  air  with  his  raised  right  hand,  and  put  out  his  tongue  and 
threw  his  head  on  one  side,  so  as  to  counterfeit  the  appearance 
of  one  who  has  been  hanged.  Then  he  pocketed  his  share 
of  the  spoil,  and  executed  a  shuffle  with  his  feet  as  if  to  restore 
the  circulation.  . 

Tabary  was  the  last  to  help  himself;  he  made  a  dash  at  the 
money  and  retired  to  the  other  end  of  the  apartment. 

Montigny  stuck  Thevenin  upright  in  the  chair,  and  drew  out 
the  dagger,  which  was  followed  by  a  jet  of  blood. 

"You  fellows  had  better  be  moving,"  he  said,  as  he  wiped  the 
blade  on  his  victim's  doublet. 

"I  think  we  had,"  returned  Villon,  with  a  gulp.  "Damn  his 
fat  head!"  he  broke  out.  "It  sticks  in  my  throat  like  phlegm. 
What  right  has  a  man  to  have  red  hair  when  he  is  dead?"  And 
he  fell  all  of  a  heap  again  upon  the  stool,  and  fairly  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

Montigny  and  Dom  Nicolas  laughed  aloud,  even  Tabary 
feebly  chiming  in. 

"Cry  baby,"  said  the  monk. 

"I  always  said  he  was  a  woman,"  added  Montigny,  with  a 
sneer.  "Sit  up,  can't  you?"  he  went  on,  giving  another  shake 
to  the  murdered  body.     "Tread  out  that  fire,  Nick!" 

But  Nick  was  better  employed;  he  was  quietly  taking  Villon's 
purse,  as  the  poet  sat,  limp  and  trembling,  on  the  stool  where  he 
had  been  making  a  ballade  not  three  minutes  before.  Montigny 
and  Tabary  dumbly  demanded  a  share  of  the  booty,  which  the 
monk  silently  promised  as  he  passed  the  little  bag  into  the  bosom 
of  his  gown.  In  many  ways  an  artistic  nature  unfits  a  man  for 
practical  existence. 

No  sooner  had  the  theft  been  accomplished  than  Villon  shook 
himself,  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  began  helping  to  scatter  and 
extinguish  the  embers.     Meanwhile  Montigny  opened  the  door 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  375 

and  cautiously  peered  into  the  street.  The  coast  was  clear; 
there  was  no  meddlesome  patrol  in  sight.  Still  it  was  judged 
wiser  to  slip  out  severally;  and  as  Villon  was  himself  in  a  hurry 
to  escape  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  dead  Thevenin,  and 
the  rest  were  in  a  still  greater  hurry  to  get  rid  of  him  before  he 
should  discover  the  loss  of  his  money,  he  was  the  first  by  general 
consent  to  issue  forth  into  the  street. 

The  wind  had  triumphed  and  swept  all  the  clouds  from  heaven. 
Only  a  few  vapors,  as  thin  as  moonlight,  fleeted  rapidly  across 
the  stars.  It  was  bitter  cold;  and  by  a  common  optical  effect, 
things  seemed  almost  more  definite  than  in  the  broadest  daylight. 
The  sleeping  city  was  absolutely  still;  a  company  of  white  hoods, 
a  field  full  of  little  alps,  below  the  twinkling  stars.  Villon  cursed 
his  fortune.  Would  it  were  still  snowing!  Now,  wherever  he 
went,  he  left  an  indelible  trail  behind  him  on  the  glittering 
streets;  wherever  he  went  he  was  still  tethered  to  the  house  by 
the  cemetery  of  St.  John;  wherever  he  went  he  must  weave, 
with  his  own  plodding  feet,  the  rope  that  bound  him  to  the  crime 
and  would  bind  him  to  the  gallows.  The  leer  of  the  dead  man 
came  back  to  him  with  a  new  significance.  He  snapped  his 
fingers  as  if  to  pluck  up  his  own  spirits  and  choosing  a  street  at 
random,  stepped  boldly  forward  in  the  snow. 

Two  things  preoccupied  him  as  he  went:  the  aspect  of  the 
gallows  at  Montfaucon  in  this  bright,  windy  phase  of  the  night's 
existence,  for  one;  and  for  another,  the  look  of  the  dead  man  with 
his  bald  head  and  garland  of  red  curls.  Both  struck  cold  upon 
his  heart,  and  he  kept  quickening  his  pace  as  if  he  could  escape 
from  unpleasant  thoughts  by  mere  fleetness  of  foot.  Sometimes 
he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  with  a  sudden  nervous  jerk; 
'but  he  was  the  only  moving  thing  in  the  white  streets,  except 
when  the  wind  swooped  round  a  corner  and  threw  up  the  snow, 
which  was  beginning  to  freeze,  in  spouts  of  glittering  dust. 

Suddenly  he  saw,  a  long  way  before  him,  a  black  clump  and 
a  couple  of  lanterns.    The  clump  was  in  motion,  and  the  lanterns 


376  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

swung  as  though  carried  by  men  walking.  It  was  a  patrol. 
And  though  it  was  merely  crossing  his  line  of  march  he  judged 
it  wiser  to  get  out  of  eyeshot  as  speedily  as  he  could.  He  was 
not  in  the  humor  to  be  challenged,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
making  a  very  conspicuous  mark  upon  the  snow.  Just  on  his 
left  hand  there  stood  a  great  hotel,  with  some  turrets  and  a  large 
porch  before  the  door;  it  was  half-ruinous,  he  remembered, 
and  had  long  stood  empty;  and  so  he  made  three  steps  of  it, 
and  jumped  into  the  shelter  of  the  porch.  It  was  pretty  dark 
inside,  after  the  glimmer  of  the  snowy  streets,  and  he  was  groping 
forward  with  outspread  hands,  when  he  stumbled  over  some  sub- 
stance which  offered  an  indescribable  mixture  of  resistances, 
hard  and  soft,  firm  and  loose.  His  heart  gave  a  leap,  and  he 
sprang  two  steps  back  and  stared  dreadfully  at  the  obstacle. 
Then  he  gave  a  little  laugh  of  relief.  It  was  only  a  woman,  and 
she  dead.  He  knelt  beside  her  to  make  sure  upon  this  latter 
point.  She  was  freezing  cold,  and  rigid  like  a  stick.  A  little 
ragged  finery  fluttered  in  the  wind  about  her  hair,  and  her  cheeks 
had  been  heavily  rouged  that  same  afternoon.  Her  pockets 
were  quite  empty;  but  in  her  stocking,  underneath  the  garter, 
Villon  found  two  of  the  small  coins  that  went  by  the  name  of 
whites.  It  was  little  enough;  but  it  was  always  something; 
and  the  poet  was  moved  with  a  deep  sense  of  pathos  that  she 
should  have  died  before  she  had  spent  her  money.  That  seemed 
to  him  a  dark  and  pitiable  mystery;  and  he  looked  from  the 
coins  in  his  hand  to  the  dead  woman,  and  back  again  to  the 
coins,  shaking  his  head  over  the  riddle  of  man's  life.  Henry  V 
of  England,  dying  at  Vincennes  just  after  he  had  conquered 
France,  and  this  poor  jade  cut  off  by  a  cold  draught  in  a  great 
man's  doorway,  before  she  had  time  to  spend  her  couple  of 
whites  —  it  seemed  a  cruel  way  to  carry  on  the  world.  Two 
whites  would  have  taken  such  a  little  while  to  squander;  and 
yet  it  would  have  been  one  more  good  taste  in  the  mouth,  one 
more  smack  of  the  lips,  before  the  devil  got  the  soul,  and  the  body 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  377 

was  left  to  birds  and  vermin.  He  would  like  to  use  all  his  tallow 
before  the  light  was  blown  out  and  the  lantern  broken. 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind,  he  was 
feeling,  half  mechanically,  for  his  purse.  Suddenly  his  heart 
stopped  beating;  a  feeling  of  cold  scales  passed  up  the  back  of 
his  legs,  and  a  cold  blow  seemed  to  fall  upon  his  scalp.  He  stood 
petrified  for  a  moment;  then  he  felt  again  with  one  feverish 
movement;  and  then  his  loss  burst  upon  him,  and  he  was  covered 
at  once  with  perspiration.  To  spendthrifts  money  is  so  living 
and  actual  —  it  is  such  a  thin  veil  between  them  and  their 
pleasures!  There  is  only  one  limit  to  their  fortune  —  that  of 
time;  and  a  spendthrift  with  only  a  few  crowns  is  the  Emperor 
of  Rome  until  they  are  spent.  For  such  a  person  to  lose  his 
money  is  to  suffer  the  most  shocking  reverse,  and  fall  from 
heaven  to  hell,  from  all  to  nothing,  in  a  breath.  And  all  the 
more  if  he  has  put  his  head  in  the  halter  for  it;  if  he  may  be 
hanged  to-morrow  for  that  same  purse,  so  dearly  earned,  so 
foolishly  departed!  Villon  stood  and  cursed;  he  threw  the  two 
whites  into  the  street;  he  shook  his  fist  at  heaven;  he  stamped, 
and  was  not  horrified  to  find  himself  trampling  the  poor  corpse. 
Then  he  began  rapidly  to  retrace  his  steps  towards  the  house 
beside  the  cemetery.  He  had  forgotten  all  fear  of  the  patrol, 
which  was  long  gone  by  at  any  rate,  and  had  no  idea  but  that  of 
his  lost  purse.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  looked  right  and  left 
upon  the  snow:  nothing  was  to  be  seen.  He  had  not  dropped 
it  in  the  streets.  Had  it  fallen  in  the  house?  He  would  have 
liked  dearly  to  go  in  and  see;  but  the  idea  of  the  grisly  occupant 
unmanned  him.  And  he  saw  besides,  as  he  drew  near,  that  their 
efforts  to  put  out  the  fire  had  been  unsuccessful;  on  the  contrary, 
it  had  broken  into  a  blaze,  and  a  changeful  light  played  in  the 
chinks  of  door  and  window,  and  revived  his  terror  for  the  au- 
thorities and  Paris  gibbet. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  with  the  porch,  and  groped  about 
upon  the  snow  for  the  money  he  had  thrown  away  in  his  childish 


378  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

passion.  But  he  could  only  find  one  white;  the  other  had  prob- 
ably struck  sideways  and  sunk  deeply  in.  With  a  single  white 
in  his  pocket,  all  his  projects  for  a  rousing  night  in  some  wild 
tavern  vanished  utterly  away.  And  it  was  not  only  pleasure 
that  fled  laughing  from  his  grasp;  positive  discomfort,  positive 
pain,  attacked  him  as  he  stood  ruefully  before  the  porch.  His 
perspiration  had  dried  upon  him;  and  although  the  wind  had 
now  fallen,  a  binding  frost  was  setting  in  stronger  with  every 
hour,  and  he  felt  benumbed  and  sick  at  heart.  What  was  to 
be  done?  Late  as  was  the  hour,  improbable  as  was  success,  he 
would  try  the  house  of  his  adopted  father,  the  chaplain  of  St. 
Benoit. 

He  ran  there  all  the  way,  and  knocked  timidly.  There  was 
no  answer.  He  knocked  again  and  again,  taking  heart  with 
every  stroke;  and  at  last  steps  were  heard  approaching  from 
within.  A  barred  wicket  fell  open  in  the  iron-studded  door, 
and  emitted  a  gush  of  yellow  light. 

"Hold  up  your  face  to  the  wicket,"  said  the  chaplain  from 
within. 

"It  is  only  me,"  whimpered  Villon. 

"Oh,  it's  only  you,  is  it?"  returned  the  chaplain;  and  he 
cursed  him  with  foul  unpriestly  oaths  for  disturbing  him  at  such 
an  hour,  and  bade  him  be  off  to  hell,  where  he  came  from. 

"My  hands  are  blue  to  the  wrist,"  pleaded  Villon;  "my  feet 
are  dead  and  full  of  twinges;  my  nose  aches  with  the  sharp  air; 
the  cold  lies  at  my  heart.  I  may  be  dead  before  morning. 
Only  this  once,  father,  and  before  God,  I  will  never  ask  again!" 

"  You  should  have  come  earlier,"  said  the  ecclesiastic  coolly. 
"Young  men  require  a  lesson  now  and  then."  He  shut  the 
wicket  and  retired  deliberately  into  the  interior  of  the  house. 

Villon  was  beside  himself;  he  beat  upon  the  door  with  his 
hands  and  feet,  and  shouted  hoarsely  after  the  chaplain. 

"Wormy  old  fox!"  he  cried.  "If  I  had  my  hand  under  your 
twist,  I  would  send  you  flying  headlong  into  the  bottomless  pit." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  379 

A  door  shut  in  the  interior,  faintly  audible  to  the  poet  down 
long  passages.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  mouth  with  an 
oath.  And  then  the  humor  of  the  situation  struck  him,  and 
he  laughed  and  looked  lightly  up  to  heaven,  where  the  stars 
seemed  to  be  winking  over  his  discomfiture. 

What  was  to  be  done?  It  looked  very  like  a  night  in  the  frosty 
streets.  The  idea  of  the  dead  woman  popped  into  his  imagin- 
ation, and  gave  him  a  hearty  fright;  what  had  happened  to  her 
in  the  early  night  might  very  well  happen  to  him  before  morning. 
And  he  so  young!  and  with  such  immense  possibilities  of  dis- 
orderly amusement  before  him !  He  felt  quite  pathetic  over  the 
notion  of  his  own  fate,  as  if  it  had  been  some  one  else's,  and  made 
a  little  imaginative  vignette  of  the  scene  in  the  morning  when 
they  should  find  his  body. 

He  passed  all  his  chances  under  review,  turning  the  white 
between  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  Unfortunately  he  was  on 
bad  terms  with  some  old  friends  who  would  once  have  taken  pity 
on  him  in  such  a  plight.  He  had  lampooned  them  in  verses; 
he  had  beaten  and  cheated  them;  and  yet  now,  when  he  was  in 
so  close  a  pinch,  he  thought  there  was  at  least  one  who  might 
perhaps  relent.  It  was  a  chance.  It  was  worth  trying  at  least, 
and  he  would  go  and  see. 

On  the  way,  two  little  accidents  happened  to  him  which 
colored  his  musings  in  a  very  different  manner.  For,  first,  he 
fell  in  with  the  track  of  a  patrol,  and  walked  in  it  for  some 
hundred  yards,  although  it  lay  out  of  his  direction.  And  this 
spirited  him  up;  at  least  he  had  confused  his  trail;  for  he  was 
still  possessed  with  the  idea  of  people  tracking  him  all  about 
Paris  over  the  snow,  and  collaring  him  next  morning  before  he 
was  awake.  The  other  matter  affected  him  quite  differently. 
He  passed  a  street  corner,  where,  not  so  long  before,  a  woman 
and  her  child  had  been  devoured  by  wolves.  This  was  just 
the  kind  of  weather,  he  reflected,  when  wolves  might  take  it 
into  their  heads  to  enter  Paris  again;   and  a  lone  man  in  these 


380  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

deserted  streets  would  run  the  chance  of  something  worse  than 
a  mere  scare.  He  stopped  and  looked  upon  the  place  with  an 
unpleasant  interest  —  it  was  a  centre  where  several  lanes  inter- 
sected each  other;  and  he  looked  down  them  all,  one  after 
another,  and  held  his  breath  to  listen,  lest  he  should  detect  some 
galloping  black  things  on  the  snow  or  hear  the  sound  of  howling 
between  him  and  the  river.  He  remembered  his  mother  telling 
him  the  story  and  pointing  out  the  spot,  while  he  was  yet  a  child. 
His  mother!  If  he  only  knew  where  she  lived,  he  might  make 
sure  at  least  of  shelter.  He  determined  he  would  inquire  upon 
the  morrow;  nay,  he  would  go  and  see  her  too,  poor  old  girl! 
So  thinking,  he  arrived  at  his  destination  —  his  last  hope  for 
the  night. 

The  house  was  quite  dark,  like  its  neighbors;  and  yet  after 
a  few  taps,  he  heard  a  movement  overhead,  a  door  opening, 
and  a  cautious  voice  asking  who  was  there.  The  poet  named 
himself  in  a  loud  whisper,  and  waited,  not  without  some  trepi- 
dation, the  result.  Nor  had  he  to  wait  long.  A  window  was 
suddenly  opened,  and  a  pailful  of  slops  splashed  down  upon 
the  doorstep.  Villon  had  not  been  unprepared  for  something 
of  the  sort,  and  had  put  himself  as  much  in  shelter  as  the  nature 
of  the  porch  admitted;  but  for  all  that,  he  was  deplorably 
drenched  below  the  waist.  His  hose  began  to  freeze  almost  at 
once.  Death  from  cold  and  exposure  stared  him  in  the  face; 
he  remembered  he  was  of  phthisical  tendency,  and  began  cough- 
ing tentatively.  But  the  gravity  of  the  danger  steadied  his 
nerves.  He  stopped  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  door  where 
he  had  been  so  rudely  used,  and  reflected  with  his  finger  to  his 
nose.  He  could  only  see  one  way  of  getting  a  lodging,  and  that 
was  to  take  it.  He  had  noticed  a  house  nor  far  away,  which 
looked  as  if  it  might  be  easily  broken  into,  and  thither  he  be- 
took himself  promptly,  entertaining  himself  on  the  way  with  the 
idea  of  a  room  still  hot,  with  a  table  still  loaded  with  the  remains 
of  supper,  where  he  might  pass  the  rest  of  the  black  hours  and 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  381 

whence  he  should  issue,  on  the  morrow,  with  an  armful  of  valu- 
able plate.  He  even  considered  what  viands  and  what  wines 
he  should  prefer;  and  as  he  was  calling  the  roll  of  his  favorite 
dainties,  roast  fish  presented  itself  to  his  mind  with  an  odd 
mixture  of  amusement  and  horror. 

"I  shall  never  finish  that  ballade,"  he  thought  to  himself; 
and  then,  with  another  shudder  at  the  recollection,  "Oh,  damn 
his  fat  head!"  he  repeated  fervently,  and  spat  upon  the  snow. 

The  house  in  question  looked  dark  at  first  sight;  but  as  Villon 
made  a  preliminary  inspection  in  search  of  the  handiest  point 
of  attack,  a  little  twinkle  of  light  caught  his  eye  from  behind 
a  curtained  window. 

"The  devil!"  he  thought.  "People  awake!  Some  student  or 
some  saint,  confound  the  crew!  Can't  they  get  drunk  and  lie 
in  bed  snoring  like  their  neighbors!  What's  the  good  of  curfew, 
and  poor  devils  of  bell-ringers  jumping  at  a  rope's  end  in  bell- 
towers?  What's  the  use  of  day,  if  people  sit  up  all  night? 
The  gripes  to  them!"  He  grinned  as  he  saw  where  his  logic 
was  leading  him.  "Every  man  to  his  business,  after  all," 
added  he,  "and  if  they're  awake,  by  the  Lord,  I  may  come  by 
a  supper  honestly  for  once,  and  cheat  the  devil." 

He  went  boldly  to  the  door  and  knocked  with  an  assured  hand. 
On  both  previous  occasions,  he  had  knocked  timidly  and  with 
some  dread  of  attracting  notice;  but  now  when  he  had  just 
discarded  the  thought  of  a  burglarious  entry,  knocking  at  a 
door  seemed  a  mighty  simple  and  innocent  proceeding.  The 
sound  of  his  blows  echoed  through  the  house  with  thin,  phan- 
tasmal reverberations,  as  though  it  were  quite  empty;  but  these 
had  scarcely  died  away  before  a  measured  tread  drew  near, 
a  couple  of  bolts  were  withdrawn,  and  one  wing  was  opened 
broadly,  as  though  no  guile  or  fear  of  guile  were  known  to  those 
within.  A  tall  figure  of  a  man,  muscular  and  spare,  but  a  little 
bent,  confronted  Villon.  The  head  was  massive  in  bulk,  but 
finely  sculptured;    the  nose  blunt  at  the  bottom,  but  refining 


382  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

upward  to  where  it  joined  a  pair  of  strong  and  honest  eyebrows; 
the  mouth  and  eyes  surrounded  with  delicate  markings,  and  the 
whole  face  based  upon  a  thick  white  beard,  boldly  and  squarely 
trimmed.  Seen  as  it  was  by  the  light  of  a  flickering  hand-lamp, 
it  looked  perhaps  nobler  than  it  had  a  right  to  do;  but  it  was 
a  fine  face,  honorable  rather  than  intelligent,  strong,  simple, 
and  righteous. 

"You  knock  late,  sir,"  said  the  old  man  in  resonant  courteous 
tones. 

Villon  cringed  and  brought  up  many  servile  words  of  apology; 
at  a  crisis  of  this  sort,  the  beggar  was  uppermost  in  him,  and  the 
man  of  genius  hid  his  head  with  confusion. 

"You  are  cold,"  repeated  the  old  man,  "and  hungry?  Well, 
step  in."  And  he  ordered  him  into  the  house  with  a  noble 
enough  gesture. 

"Some  great  seigneur,"  thought  Villon,  as  his  host,  setting 
down  the  lamp  on  the  flagged  pavement  of  the  entry,  shot 
the  bolts  once  more  into  their  places. 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  go  in  front,"  he  said,  when  this 
was  done;  and  he  preceded  the  poet  upstairs  into  a  large  apart- 
ment, warmed  with  a  pan  of  charcoal  and  lit  by  a  great  lamp 
hanging  from  the  roof.  It  was  very  bare  of  furniture:  only  some 
gold  plate  on  a  sideboard;  some  folios;  and  a  stand  of  armor 
between  the  windows.  Some  smart  tapestry  hung  upon  the 
walls,  representing  the  crucifixion  of  our  Lord  in  one  piece, 
and  in  another  a  scene  of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  by  a 
running  stream.     Over  the  chimney  was  a  shield  of  arms. 

"Will  you  seat  yourself,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  forgive  me  if 
I  leave  you?  I  am  alone  in  my  house  to-night,  and  if  you  are 
to  eat  I  must  forage  for  you  myself." 

No  sooner  was  his  host  gone  than  Villon  leaped  from  the 
chair  on  which  he  had  just  seated  himself,  and  began  examin- 
ing the  room,  with  the  stealth  and  passion  of  a  cat.  He  weighed 
the  gold  flagons  in  his  hand,  opened  all  the  folios,  and  investi- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  383 

gated  the  arms  upon  the  shield,  and  the  stuff  with  which  the 
seats  were  lined.  He  raised  the  window  curtains,  and  saw  that 
the  windows  were  set  with  rich  stained  glass  in  figures,  so  far 
as  he  could  see,  of  martial  import.  Then  he  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  retaining  it  with 
puffed  cheeks,  looked  round  and  round  him,  turning  on  his 
heels,  as  if  to  impress  every  feature  of  the  apartment  on  his 
memory. 

"Seven  pieces  of  plate,"  he  said.  "If  there  had  been  ten,  I 
would  have  risked  it.  A  fine  house,  and  a  fine  old  master,  so 
help  me  all  the  saints!" 

And  just  then,  hearing  the  old  man's  tread  returning  along 
the  corridor,  he  stole  back  to  his  chair,  and  began  humbly 
toasting  his  wet  legs  before  the  charcoal  pan. 

His  entertainer  had  a  plate  of  meat  in  one  hand  and  a  jug  of 
wine  in  the  other.  He  set  down  the  plate  upon  the  table, 
motioning  Villon  to  draw  in  his  chair,  and  going  to  the  side- 
board, brought  back  two  goblets,  which  he  filled. 

"I  drink  your  better  fortune,"  he  said,  gravely  touching 
Villon's  cup  with  his  own. 

"To  our  better  acquaintance,"  said  the  poet,  growing  bold. 
A  mere  man  of  the  people  would  have  been  awed  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  old  seigneur,  but  Villon  was  hardened  in  that  matter; 
he  had  made  mirth  for  great  lords  before  now,  and  found  them 
as  black  rascals  as  himself.  And  so  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
viands  with  a  ravenous  gusto,  while  the  old  man,  leaning  back- 
ward, watched  him  with  steady,  curious  eyes. 

"You  have  blood  on  your  shoulder,  my  man,"  he  said. 

Montigny  must  have  laid  his  wet  right  hand  upon  him  as  he 
left  the  house.     He  cursed  Montigny  in  his  heart. 

"It  was  none  of  my  shedding,"  he  stammered. 

"I  had  not  supposed  so,"  returned  his  host  quietly.  "A 
brawl?" 

"Well, something  of  that  sort,"  Villon  admitted  with  a  quaver. 


384  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

"Perhaps  a  fellow  murdered?" 

"Oh  no,  not  murdered,"  said  the  poet,  more  and  more  con- 
fused. "It  was  all  fair  play  —  murdered  by  accident.  I  had 
no  hand  in  it,  God  strike  me  dead!"  he  added  fervently. 

"One  rogue  the  fewer,  I  dare  say,"  observed  the  master  of 
the  house. 

"You  may  dare  to  say  that,"  agreed  Villon,  infinitely  re- 
lieved. "As  big  a  rogue  as  there  is  between  here  and  Jerusalem. 
He  turned  up  his  toes  like  a  lamb.  But  it  was  a  nasty  thing  to 
look  at.  I  dare  say  you've  seen  dead  men  in  your  time,  my 
lord?"   he  added,  glancing  at  the  armor. 

"Many,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  have  followed  the  wars,  as 
you  imagine." 

Villon  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  which  he  had  just  taken 
up  again. 

"Were  any  of  them  bald?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  and  with  hair  as  white  as  mine." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  mind  the  white  so  much,"  said 
Villon.  "His  was  red."  And  he  had  a  return  of  his  shuddering 
and  tendency  to  laughter,  which  he  drowned  with  a  great  draught 
of  wine.  "I'm  a  little  put  out  when  I  think  of  it,"  he  went 
on.  "I  knew  him  —  damn  him!  And  then  the  cold  gives  a 
man  fancies  —  or  the  fancies  give  a  man  cold,  I  don't  know 
which." 

"Have  you  any  money?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"I  have  one  white,"  returned  the  poet,  laughing.  "I  got 
it  out  of  a  dead  jade's  stocking  in  a  porch.  She  was  as  dead  as 
Caesar,  poor  wench,  and  as  cold  as  a  church,  with  bits  of  ribbon 
sticking  in  her  hair.  This  is  a  hard  world  in  winter  for  wolves 
and  wenches  and  poor  rogues  like  me." 

"I,"  said  the  old  man,  "am  Enguerrand  de  la  Feuillee, 
seigneur  de  Brisetout,  bailly  du  Patatrac.  Who  and  what  may 
you  be?" 

Villon  rose  and  made  a  suitable  reverence.     "I  am  called 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  385 

Francis  Villon,"  he  said,  "a  poor  Master  of  Arts  of  this  uni- 
versity. I  know  some  Latin,  and  a  deal  of  vice.  I  can  make 
chansons,  ballades,  lais,  virelais,  and  roundels,  and  I  am  very 
fond  of  wine.  I  was  born  in  a  garret,  and  I  shall  not  improbably 
die  upon  the  gallows.  I  may  add,  my  lord,  that  from  this  night 
forward  I  am  your  lordship's  very  obsequious  servant  to  com- 
mand." 

"No  servant  of  mine,"  said  the  knight;  "my  guest  for  this 
evening,  and  no  more." 

"A  very  grateful  guest,"  said  Villon,  politely,  and  he  drank 
in  dumb  show  to  his  entertainer. 

"You  are  shrewd,"  began  the  old  man,  tapping  his  forehead, 
"very  shrewd;  you  have  learning;  you  are  a  clerk;  and  yet  you 
take  a  small  piece  of  money  off  a  dead  woman  in  the  street. 
Is  it  not  a  kind  of  theft?" 

"It  is  a  kind  of  theft  much  practiced  in  the  wars,  my  lord." 

"The  wars  are  the  field  of  honor,"  returned  the  old  man 
proudly.  "There  a  man  plays  his  life  upon  the  cast;  he  fights 
in  the  name  of  his  lord  the  king,  his  Lord  God,  and  all  their 
lordships  the  holy  saints  and  angels." 

"Put  it,"  said  Villon,  "that  I  were  really  a  thief,  should  I  not 
play  my  life  also,  and  against  heavier  odds?" 

"For  gain  but  not  for  honor." 

"Gain?"  repeated  Villon  with  a  shrug.  "Gain!  The  poor 
fellow  wants  supper  and  takes  it.  So  does  the  soldier  in  a  cam- 
paign. Why,  what  are  all  these  requisitions  we  hear  so  much 
about?  If  they  are  not  gain  to  those  who  take  them,  they  are 
loss  enough  to  the  others.  The  men-at-arms  drink  by  a  good 
fire,  while  the  burgher  bites  his  nails  to  buy  them  wine  and  wood. 
I  have  seen  a  good  many  ploughmen  swinging  on  trees  about  the 
country;  ay,  I  have  seen  thirty  on  one  elm,  and  a  very  poor 
figure  they  made;  and  when  I  asked  some  one  how  all  these 
came  to  be  hanged,  I  was  told  it  was  because  they  could  not 
scrape  together  enough  crowns  to  satisfy  the  men-at-arms." 


386  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

"These  things  are  a  necessity  of  war,  which  the  lowborn 
must  endure  with  constancy.  It  is  true  that  some  captains 
drive  overhard;  there  are  spirits  in  every  rank  not  easily  moved 
by  pity;  and  indeed  many  follow  arms  who  are  no  better  than 
brigands." 

"You  see,"  said  the  poet,  "you  can  not  separate  the  soldier 
from  the  brigand;  and  what  is  a  thief  but  an  isolated  brigand 
with  circumspect  manners?  I  steal  a  couple  of  mutton  chops, 
without  so  much  as  disturbing  people's  sleep;  the  farmer  grum- 
bles a  bit,  but  sups  none  the  less  wholesomely  on  what  remains. 
You  come  up  blowing  gloriously  on  a  trumpet,  take  away  the 
whole  sheep,  and  beat  the  farmer  pitifully  into  the  bargain. 
I  have  no  trumpet;  I  am  only  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry;  I  am  a 
rogue  and  a  dog,  and  hanging's  too  good  for  me  —  with  all 
my  heart;  but  just  ask  the  farmer  which  of  us  he  prefers,  just 
find  out  which  of  us  he  lies  awake  to  curse  on  cold  nights." 

"Look  at  us  two,"  said  his  lordship.  "I  am  old,  strong,  and 
honored.  If  I  were  turned  from  my  house  to-morrow,  hundreds 
would  be  proud  to  shelter  me.  Poor  people  would  go  out  and 
pass  the  night  in  the  streets  with  their  children,  if  I  merely 
hinted  that  I  wished  to  be  alone.  And  I  find  you  up,  wandering 
homeless,  and  picking  farthings  off  dead  women  by  the  wayside! 
I  fear  no  man  and  nothing;  I  have  seen  you  tremble  and  lose 
countenance  at  a  word.  I  wait  God's  summons  contentedly 
in  my  own  house,  or,  if  it  please  the  king  to  call  me  again,  upon 
the  field  of  battle.  You  look  for  the  gallows;  a  rough,  swift 
death,  without  hope  or  honor.  Is  there  no  difference  between 
these  two?" 

"As  far  as  to  the  moon,"  Villon  acquiesced.  "But  if  I  had 
been  born  lord  of  Brisetout,  and  you  had  been  the  poor  scholar 
Francis,  would  the  difference  have  been  any  the  less?  Should 
not  I  have  been  warming  my  knees  at  this  charcoal  pan,  and 
would  not  you  have  been  groping  for  farthings  in  the  snow? 
Should  not  I  have  been  the  soldier,  and  you  the  thief?" 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  387 

"  A  thief?"  cried  the  old  man.  "la  thief!  If  you  understood 
your  words,  you  would  repent  them." 

Villon  turned  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  inimitable 
impudence.  "If  your  lordship  had  done  me  the  honor  to  follow 
my  argument!"  he  said. 

"I  do  you  too  much  honor  in  submitting  to  your  presence," 
said  the  knight.  "Learn  to  curb  your  tongue  when  you  speak 
with  old  and  honorable  men,  or  some  one  hastier  than  I  may 
reprove  you  in  a  sharper  fashion."  And  he  rose  and  paced  the 
lower  end  of  the  apartment,  struggling  with  anger  and  antip- 
athy. Villon  surreptitiously  refilled  his  cup,  and  settled  him- 
self more  comfortably  in  the  chair,  crossing  his  knees  and  leaning 
his  head  upon  one  hand  and  the  elbow  against  the  back  of  the 
chair.  He  was  now  replete  and  warm;  and  he  was  in  nowise 
frightened  for  his  host,  having  gauged  him  as  justly  as  was  pos- 
sible between  two  such  different  characters.  The  night  was 
far  spent,  and  in  a  very  comfortable  fashion  after  all;  and  he 
felt  morally  certain  of  a  safe  departure  on  the  morrow. 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  said  the  old  man,  pausing  in  his  walk. 
"Are  you  really  a  thief?" 

"I  claim  the  sacred  rights  of  hospitality,"  returned  the  poet. 
"My  lord,  I  am." 

"You  are  very  young,"  the  knight  continued. 

"I  should  never  have  been  so  old,"  replied  Villon,  showing  his 
fingers,  "if  I  had  not  helped  myself  with  these  ten  talents. 
They  have  been  my  nursing  mothers  and  my  nursing  fathers." 

"You  may  still  repent  and  change." 

"I  repent  daily,"  said  the  poet.  "There  are  few  people  more 
given  to  repentance  than  poor  Francis.  As  for  change,  let  some- 
body change  my  circumstances.  A  man  must  continue  to  eat, 
if  it  were  only  that  he  may  continue  to  repent." 

"The  change  must  begin  in  the  heart,"  returned  the  old  man 
solemnly. 

"My  dear  lord,"  answered  Villon,  "do  you  really  fancy  that 


388  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

I  steal  for  pleasure?  I  hate  stealing,  like  any  other  piece  of  work 
or  of  danger.  My  teeth  chatter  when  I  see  a  gallows.  But  I 
must  eat,  I  must  drink,  I  must  mix  in  society  of  some  sort. 
What  the  devil!  Man  is  not  a  solitary  animal  —  cut  Deus 
fceminam  tradit.  Make  me  king's  pantler  —  make  me  abbot 
of  St.  Denis;  make  me  bailly  of  the  Patatrac;  and  then  I 
shall  be  changed  indeed.  But  as  long  as  you  leave  me  the  poor 
scholar  Francis  Villon,  without  a  farthing,  why,  of  course,  I 
remain  the  same." 

"The  grace  of  God  is  all-powerful." 

"I  should  be  a  heretic  to  question  it,"  said  Francis.  "It 
has  made  you  lord  of  Brisetout  and  bailly  of  the  Patatrac;  it 
has  given  me  nothing  but  the  quick  wits  under  my  hat  and 
these  ten  toes  upon  my  hands.  May  I  help  myself  to  wine? 
I  thank  you  respectfully.  By  God's  grace,  you  have  a  very 
superior  vintage." 

The  lord  of  Brisetout  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back.  Perhaps  he  was  not  yet  quite  settled  in  his  mind 
about  the  parallel  between  thieves  and  soldiers;  perhaps  Villon 
had  interested  him  by  some  cross-thread  of  sympathy;  perhaps 
his  wits  were  simply  muddled  by  so  much  unfamiliar  reasoning; 
but  whatever  the  cause,  he  somehow  yearned  to  convert  the 
young  man  to  a  better  way  of  thinking,  and  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  drive  him  forth  again  into  the  street. 

"There  is  something  more  than  I  can  understand  in  this," 
he  said  at  length.  "Your  mouth  is  full  of  subtleties,  and  the 
devil  has  led  you  very  far  astray;  but  the  devil  is  only  a  very 
weak  spirit  before  God's  truth,  and  all  his  subtleties  vanish  at  a 
word  of  true  honor,  like  darkness  at  morning.  Listen  to  me 
once  more.  I  learned  long  ago  that  a  gentleman  should  live 
chivalrously  and  lovingly  to  God,  and  the  king,  and  his  lady; 
and  though  I  have  seen  many  strange  things  done,  I  have  still 
striven  to  command  my  ways  upon  that  rule.  It  is  not  only 
written  in  all  noble  histories,  but  in  every  man's  heart,  if  he  will 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  389 

take  care  to  read.  "You  speak  of  food  and  wine,  and  I  know 
very  well  that  hunger  is  a  difficult  trial  to  endure;  but  you  do 
not  speak  of  other  wants;  you  say  nothing  of  honor,  of  faith 
to  God  and  other  men,  of  courtesy,  of  love  without  reproach. 
It  may  be  that  I  am  not  very  wise  —  and  yet  I  think  I  am  — 
but  you  seem  to  me  like  one  who  has  lost  his  way  and  made  a 
great  error  in  life.  You  are  attending  to  the  little  wants,  and 
you  have  totally  forgotten  the  great  and  only  real  ones,  like 
a  man  who  should  be  doctoring  toothache  on  the  Judgment  Day. 
For  such  things  as  honor  and  love  and  faith  are  not  only  nobler 
than  food  and  drink,  but  indeed  I  think  we  desire  them  more, 
and  suffer  more  sharply  for  their  absence.  I  speak  to  you  as 
I  think  you  will  most  easily  understand  me.  Are  you  not, 
while  careful  to  fill  your  belly,  disregarding  another  appetite 
in  your  heart  which  spoils  the  pleasure  of  your  life  and  keeps 
you  continually  wretched?" 

Villon  was  sensibly  nettled  under  all  this  sermonizing.  "You 
think  I  have  no  sense  of  honor!"  he  cried.  "I'm  poor  enough, 
God  knows!  It's  hard  to  see  rich  people  with  their  gloves, 
and  you  blowing  in  your  hands.  An  empty  belly  is  a  bitter 
thing,  although  you  speak  so  lightly  of  it.  If  you  had  had  as 
many  as  I,  perhaps  you  would  change  your  tune.  Anyway 
I  'm  a  thief  —  make  the  most  of  that  —  but  I  'm  not  a  devil 
from  hell,  God  strike  me  dead.  I  would  have  you  to  know 
I've  an  honor  of  my  own,  as  good  as  yours,  though  I  don't 
prate  about  it  all  day  long,  as  if  it  was  a  God's  miracle  to  have 
any.  It  seems  quite  natural  to  me;  I  keep  it  in  its  box  till 
it's  wanted.  Why  now,  look  you  here,  how  long  have  I  been  in 
this  room  with  you?  Did  you  not  tell  me  you  were  alone  in 
the  house !  Look  at  your  gold  plate !  You  're  strong,  if  you  like, 
but  you're  old  and  unarmed,  and  I  have  my  knife.  What  did 
I  want  but  a  jerk  of  the  elbow  and  here  would  have  been  you 
with  the  cold  steel  in  your  bowels,  and  there  would  have  been 
me,  linking  in  the  streets,  with  an  armful  of  golden  cups!     Did 


390  A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

you  suppose  I  hadn't  wit  enough  to  see  that?  And  I  scorned 
the  action.  There  are  your  damned  goblets,  as  safe  as  in  a 
church;  there  are  you,  with  your  heart  ticking  as  good  as  new; 
and  here  am  I,  ready  to  go  out  again  as  poor  as  I  came  in,  with 
my  one  white  that  you  threw  in  my  teeth!  And  you  think 
I  have  no  sense  of  honor  —  God  strike  me  dead!" 

The  old  man  stretched  out  his  right  arm.  "I  will  tell  you 
what  you  are,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a  rogue,  my  man,  an  impu- 
dent and  black-hearted  rogue  and  vagabond.  I  have  passed 
an  hour  with  you.  Oh!  believe  me,  I  feel  myself  disgraced! 
And  you  have  eaten  and  drunk  at  my  table.  But  now  I  am  sick 
at  your  presence;  the  day  has  come,  and  the  night-bird  should 
be  off  to  his  roost.    Will  you  go  before,  or  after?" 

"Which  you  please,"  returned  the  poet,  rising,  "I  believe 
you  to  be  strictly  honorable."  He  thoughtfully  emptied  his 
cup.  "I  wish  I  could  add  you  were  intelligent,"  he  went  on, 
knocking  on  his  head  with  his  knuckles.  "Age!  age!  the  brains 
stiff  and  rheumatic." 

The  old  man  preceded  him  from  a  point  of  self-respect; 
Villon  followed,  whistling,  with  his  thumbs  in  his  girdle. 

"  God  pity  you,"  said  the  lord  of  Brisetout  at  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  papa,"  returned  Villon  with  a  yawn.  "Many 
thanks  for  the  cold  mutton." 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  The  dawn  was  breaking  over 
the  white  roofs.  A  chill,  uncomfortable  morning  ushered 
in  the  day.  Villon  stood  and  heartily  stretched  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"A  very  dull  old  gentleman,"  he  thought.  "I  wonder  what 
his  goblets  may  be  worth." 


PART    V 
HOW   TO   PRESENT   A    MORAL   ISSUE 


PART    V 

INTRODUCTION 
HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE 

A  moral  issue  is  but  a  particular  form  of  the  marking  incident 
explained  in  the  last  section.  A  man  often  brings  the  elements 
of  his  character  most  definitely  to  a  focus  when  facing  a  problem 
of  conduct.  A  conscious  effort  to  decide  between  right  and 
wrong  precipitates  a  struggle  in  which  his  salient  qualities, 
both  of  strength  and  of  weakness,  take  part. 

Not  all  marking  incidents,  it  is  true,  point  to  moral  issues. 
Some  of  them  are  mere  adventures  which  display  a  character's 
faculties  freely  in  action.  The  headlong  courses  of  Francois 
Villon  are  never  restrained  by  ethical  considerations.  A 
Lodging  for  the  Night,  therefore,  proves  his  character  of  complete 
scapegrace  effectively,  because  it  pictures  events  so  largely 
as  mere  physical  emergencies  unrelated  to  any  problem  of 
right  or  wrong.  Similarly  Bathsheba  Everdene  is  not  of  a 
nature  to  face  moral  issues.  She  habitually  lets  her  blood  speak 
and  decide  for  her.  Her  capricious  dismissal  of  Oak,  therefore, 
and  her  speedy  recalling  of  him,  when  she  realizes  that  only  he 
can  help  her,  are  not  expressions  of  a  moral  purpose.  Certain 
types  of  character,  however,  are  understood  only  when  seen  in 
an  ethical  crisis,  and  they  are  usually  the  men  and  women 
most  sure  to  arouse  literary  interest. 

The  power  demanded  in  a  writer  for  the  presentation  of  cru- 
cial moral  instances  is  to  be  gained  only  by  a  thorough  analysis 
of  real  life.  To  the  thoughtful  man  alone  will  life  appear  as  a 
series  of  questions  of  conduct.    Yet  that  is  what  life  is  in  its 


394  HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE 

most  interesting  and  by  no  means  its  least  cheerful  aspect,  and 
the  thoughtful  man  realizes  that  only  by  facing  these  questions 
in  his  own  career  and  by  solving  the  problems  that  they  suggest 
can  he  become  in  some  measure  the  man  that  he  wishes  to  be. 

To  the  thoughtless  observer  of  life  moral  issues,  even  when 
clearly  recognized,  are  rarely  charged  with  their  full  significance. 
Events  come  and  go,  and  we  fail  to  distinguish  the  unimportant 
from  those  which  are  real  turning  points.  Seldom,  for  instance, 
would  a  young  girl  in  placing  a  saucer  of  sugar  upon  the  table, 
even  against  her  father's  will,  realize  that  she  was  at  that 
moment  passing  through  a  crisis  of  profound  significance. 
Yet  Eugenie  Grandet  knows  that  this  trivial  act  is  the  crucial 
test  of  her  character,  and  that  if  she  fails  to  do  this  slight  service 
for  Charles,  she  will  remain  the  slave  of  her  father's  avarice. 
The  importance  which  Balzac  attaches  to  this  act  is  made  per- 
fectly clear  in  the  phrase  in  which  he  exalts  Eugenie's  courage 
over  that  of  the  fair  Parisian  "who  exerts  all  the  strength  of 
her  weak  arms  to  help  her  lover  to  escape  by  a  ladder  of  silken 
cords."  Eugenie's  recognition  of  the  crisis  in  this  simple  in- 
cident makes  it  a  marking  incident.  Her  willingness  to  meet  the 
crisis  gives  her  power  over  her  own  destiny. 

The  refusal  to  face  or  to  settle  a  moral  question,  which  is 
clearly  enough  recognized,  is  usually  most  dangerous  to  personal 
mastery.  Let  us  take  a  too  common  instance.  You  have  good 
reason  to  believe,  perhaps,  that  one  of  your  friends  is  regularly 
copying  your  college  exercises.  Yet  rather  than  precipitate 
a  number  of  difficult  ethical  problems  for  yourself,  you  ignore 
the  fact.  You  thereby  refuse  to  hold  the  situation  steadily 
before  your  judgment  until  you  feel  in  it  the  urge  of  a  moral 
crisis.  Carelessness  of  this  sort  is  as  fatal  to  your  character  as 
stupidity  in  understanding  problems  of  conduct  is  to  clear 
writing.  Stupid  writers  and  men  afflicted  with  moral  indiffer- 
ence are  usually  in  the  same  category.  They  are  thoughtless 
observers  of  life. 


HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE  395 

Many  students  will  feel  that  their  ethical  life  is  beset  by  none 
of  the  difficulties  here  described.  "I  have  no  trouble  in  recog- 
nizing a  moral  issue,"  they  will  say.  "The  difference  between 
right  and  wrong  has  always  been  perfectly  clear  to  me.  Above 
all,  I  know  perfectly  well  when  I  am  making  a  choice  between 
the  two."  Most  children  find  their  moral  life  thus  simple. 
They  live  according  to  laws  laid  down  by  their  parents  or  their 
schoolmasters.  These  they  either  reject  or  accept  without 
criticism.  If  they  do  transgress  this  simple  moral  code  of  theirs, 
they  do  so  consciously.  Some  sheltered  persons  continue  to 
live  for  a  large  part  of  their  lives  according  to  the  ethical  precepts 
of  others.  Their  morality  is  mechanical.  Such  persons  are 
scarcely  conscious  of  questions  of  conduct;  at  least  they  are 
never  perplexed  by  them.  Consequently  they  are  unable  to 
recognize  the  moral  struggles  of  other  people  or  to  present 
them  in  fiction. 

Some  time  before  one  goes  to  college,  however,  he  is  apt  to 
find  himself  in  a  thrilling  position  of  moral  independence.  He 
may,  for  example,  be  suddenly  brought  to  doubt  whether  the 
familiar  ideal  of  self-sacrifice  is,  after  all,  always  to  be  followed. 
Should  a  boy  allow  his  father  to  incur  debt  in  order  to  send  him 
to  college?  Should  a  girl  stay  at  home  and  give  her  mother 
needed  help  with  a  large  family  or  accept  the  offer  of  a  rich 
relative  to  put  her  through  college?  The  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions cannot  be  found  mechanically.  The  rules  of  conduct 
learned  from  others  seem  inapplicable  to  such  crises  as  these. 
Now,  as  a  person  begins  to  consider  a  problem  of  this  sort 
seriously,  he  becomes  aware,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  of  the 
widely  different  results  of  two  possible  courses  of  action.  His 
decision  then  appears  to  him  as  more  and  more  momentous. 
He  realizes  that  he  is  at  a  turning  point  in  his  life. 

After  a  single  searching  experience  of  this  sort,  a  man  is  awake 
to  similar  crises  in  the  history  of  other  men.  He  sees  the  prob- 
lems which  test  their  moral  nature.    He  may  appreciate,  let  us 


396  HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE 

say,  the  struggle  of  a  married  man  in  England  during  the  first 
months  of  the  war  when  facing  the  question  of  enlistment  in 
the  army.  How  much  does  such  a  man  owe  to  the  safety  or 
comfort  of  his  immediate  family  as  compared  to  that  remote  or 
intangible  thing,  the  future  safety  of  his  country.  The  student, 
given  insight  through  his  own  experience,  will  be  able  to  create 
imaginatively  many  of  the  conditions  of  this  quite  unfamiliar 
situation.  In  so  doing  he  will  be  choosing  from  the  welter  of 
life  the  essentials  of  a  moral  issue  and  presenting  them,  perhaps 
only  to  his  own  mind;  but  in  this  form  of  meditation  he  has 
presented  a  moral  issue  in  the  form  of  fiction.  This  power, 
it  can  readily  be  seen,  cannot  be  greater  than  the  individual's 
ability  to  recognize  the  crucial  points  in  his  own  ethical  life. 
For  this  ability  depends  on  his  imagination.  Without  it  a  man 
can  scarcely  recognize  the  moral  occasions  in  his  own  life,  to 
say  nothing  of  foreseeing  the  results.  Thus,  they  will  not 
appear  as  crises.  The  modern  soldier  is  given  such  explicit 
and  careful  direction  both  in  the  training  camp  and  before  the 
battle  that  during  the  actual  charge  he  simply  obeys  orders. 
Often  he  has  no  chance  for  imagination  or  individual  initiative 
left  him.  Even  his  courage,  therefore,  tends  to  be  automatic. 
He  passes  through  a  great  ordeal  without  having  it  consciously 
search  his  spirit. 

Crises  in  the  life  of  any  man  may  be  similarly  settled  through 
evocation  of  dead  phrases  or  traditional  wisdom.  Almost 
every  one  has  wondered  what  he  would  do  if  he  awoke  to  find 
a  burglar  in  his  house.  He  has  heard  over  and  over  again  that 
the  wise  thing  to  do  is  to  offer  no  resistance.  The  chances  are, 
then,  that  if  he  meets  the  real  situation,  he  will  follow  the  advice 
that  he  has  often  heard  with  approval.  If  the  man  is  imagin- 
ative and  far-seeing,  however,  he  may  come  to  believe  that  if 
burglars  always  met  with  stout  resistance  they  might  cease  to 
exist.  If  he  came  to  this  conclusion,  he  might  feel  that  it  would 
be  his  duty  to  fight  burglars,  whatever  the  cost  to  him.     If  the 


HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE  397 

occasion  ever  arose  in  this  man's  life,  it  would  present  a  moral 
issue,  apprehended  as  such  because  he  is  a  man  of  imagination. 

So  in  fiction,  a  character  without  imagination  cannot  be 
conceived  as  solving  a  problem  of  conduct.  If  the  hero  in 
The  Greater  Love  had  been  a  mere  dare-devil,  the  story  would 
have  presented  no  moral  issue.  The  instinctive  plunge  over- 
board of  such  a  man  would  have  been  little  more  than  an  act  of 
physical  elation.  Shortie  is  of  a  different  sort.  He  is  a  quiet, 
meditative  fellow,  full  of  thoughts  of  the  girl  he  is  to  marry  at 
the  end  of  the  voyage.  These  pleasant  anticipations,  we 
realize,  were  in  his  mind  the  moment  he  decided  to  plunge 
overboard  after  the  seaman.  For  him,  therefore,  the  act  was 
the  result  of  a  deliberate  decision,  however  swift.  Similarly, 
in  A  Dead  Issue,  the  tragi-comedy  of  Thorn's  dishonesty  de- 
pends entirely  on  his  brooding,  imaginative  temperament. 

In  fiction,  the  presentation  of  a  moral  issue  is  demanded  of 
almost  every  sort  of  writer.  A  problem,  in  the  wide  sense  in 
which  the  word  has  here  been  used,  is  the  center  of  almost 
every  modern  play  of  note.  In  Ibsen's  social  dramas,  the  crisis 
almost  surely  involves  a  fundamental  moral  decision.  Nora's 
determination  to  leave  her  husband's  Doll  House  in  order  to 
win  her  own  soul,  is  typical  of  the  problem  in  most  of  Ibsen's 
plays  and  the  vast  number  of  social  dramas  written  under  their 
influence.  Most  of  the  stories  in  this  volume  present  a  moral 
issue,  and  those  in  this  section  have  been  chosen  because,  by 
approaching  life  from  this  angle,  they  make  the  problems  in- 
volved especially  pointed. 

A  Dead  Issue  deals  with  a  situation  which  any  college  student 
will  recognize  as  typical  of  college  life,  and  yet  in  which  few  would 
see  an  important  moral  crisis.  Some  instructor  in  every  college 
is  believed  to  show  favoritism  in  giving  marks.  This  fact  is 
admitted  and  resented,  but  rarely  thought  to  be  of  much  vital 
importance  to  anyone.  It  comes  to  almost  no  one  charged  with 
deep  ethical  significance.     "Of  course,  Prescott  has  a  pull  with 


398  HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE 

Mr.  Thorn,"  argues  the  careless  student.  "The  instructoi 
will  pass  him  whether  he  deserves  to  get  through  or  not.  But 
what  is  the  difference?  It  can't  have  any  particular  effect  on 
either  Prescott  or  Mr.  Thorn.  The  one  undeserved  mark 
won't  get  Prescott  his  degree,  and  Mr.  Thorn  will  forget  the  one 
mark  in  the  hundreds  he  gives  each  semester.  There  is  no  use  in 
getting  excited  about  this  fact."  Such  an  undergraduate  has 
been  too  shallow  or  too  thoughtless  to  see  anything  but  neutral, 
insignificant  facts  in  this  part  of  his  college  life. 

A  man  with  a  trained  moral  sense,  however,  is  able  to  see  the 
instructor's  deliberate  dishonesty  in  its  true  proportion.  Thus 
seen  it  marks  a  turning  point  in  the  career  of  both  Mr.  Thorn 
and  young  Prescott.  The  instructor  loses  his  self-respect  and 
with  it  all  hope  of  establishing  the  free  and  intimate  relations 
which  he  was  eager  to  maintain  with  a  small  group  of  under- 
graduates. All  the  plans  for  a  delightful  existence  with  these 
fellows  are  shattered.  Prescott,  for  his  part,  gains  a  deep  con- 
tempt for  Thorn  and  an  attitude  of  cynicism  toward  the  justice 
of  his  teachers  in  general  that  may  ultimately  warp  his  char- 
acter. A  man  who  sees  the  dishonest  favoritism  of  an  instructor, 
as  does  the  author  of  this  story,  can  never  regard  it  as  a  matter 
of  indifference.  He  is  a  profound  and  steady  enough  observer 
to  see  in  it  important  moral  issues. 

An  Unfinished  Story  presents  an  ethical  problem  and  artfully 
leaves  it  unsolved.  In  this  particular  sketch,  however,  the 
method  serves  only  to  emphasize  the  primary  importance  of 
the  moral  issue.  Kitchener's  stern  face  gives  the  girl  strength 
enough  to  conquer  a  natural  temptation  when  conditions  are 
comparatively  favorable  to  her.  The  real  crisis  the  author 
does  not  describe.  He  merely  indicates  what  it  will  be.  It 
will  come,  he  tells  us,  when  the  same  temptation  overtakes  the 
girl  in  an  inevitable  moment  of  fatigue  and  discouragement. 
This  story  may  be  thus  regarded  as  a  successful  exercise  in 
finding  the  great  moral  issue  in  the  drab  life  of  a  shop-girl.     The 


HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE  399 

account  of  this  circumstance  is  the  story  in  her  life.  Often, 
to  apprehend  the  chief  moral  issue  in  the  career  of  a  man  is 
to  find  the  only  story  that  his  life  holds. 

Further  insight,  however,  than  the  power  to  recognize  in  the 
hurry  of  events  those  moments  which  are  crucial  for  character  is 
demanded  of  the  author  who  would  present  moral  issues.  He 
must  also  see  them  strictly  in  relation  to  character.  Other- 
wise he  will  be  but  a  preacher  with  an  exemplum.  He  must 
appreciate  the  essentially  slow  and  gradual  effect  even  of  vital 
decisions  upon  the  daily  walk  and  conversation  of  his  men  and 
women.  In  observing  and  describing  circumstantially  this 
essential  process  of  growth,  he  will  avoid  his  greatest  danger  — 
moral  melodrama. 

In  The  Captain's  Vices  the  moral  problem  is  obvious.  Cop- 
pee 's  skill  is  shown  not  so  much  in  discovering  the  significant 
issue  as  in  reducing  its  naked  ethical  appeal  to  a  history  of  human 
growth.  The  story  of  a  roue  recalled  from  his  wild  courses  by 
his  love  for  a  poor  child  might  easily  have  become  matter  for 
a  sermon.  The  author  of  the  trite  moral  fable  is  almost  sure 
to  over-emphasize  the  lesson  to  be  learned.  In  this  fashion  he 
inevitably  relates  the  facts  in  the  case  but  imperfectly  to  the 
temperament  of  the  chief  character  in  his  story.  But  Coppee's 
tale  in  this  respect  is  perfectly  composed.  The  normal  crisis 
not  only  grows  out  of  Captain  Mercadier's  temperament,  but 
it  also  proceeds  to  remould  his  character.  The  real  liberation 
of  the  Captain's  finer  nature  comes  at  the  moment  when  he  de- 
cides to  take  poor  little  Pierette  into  his  service;  and  all  the 
subsequent  self-denials  which  he  makes  in  her  interest  are  the 
results  of  this  first  benevolent  act.  The  author's  insight  into 
life  in  this  case,  then,  lies  only  partially  in  his  recognition  of 
the  moral  significance  of  a  seemingly  insignificant  event.  It 
lies  more  often  in  his  appreciation  of  the  cumulative  effects 
of  one  moral  decision  and  of  the  essentially  gradual  revelation 
of  its  full  meaning.    It  depends  on  the  power  to  see  how  one 


400  HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE 

crisis  develops  and  modifies  character  through  long  periods  ol 
time. 

In  this  analysis  of  stories  the  kind  of  imagination  required  to 
present  a  moral  issue  in  fiction  has  been  suggested.  Some  of  the 
problems  of  actual  composition  can  be  indicated  by  showing 
how  far  the  moral  issue  is  but  a  particular  form  of  the  marking 
incident.  It  may  be  argued  that  the  moral  issue  is  different 
from  the  marking  or  characteristic  incident  in  that  it  seems  to 
exist  independent  of  character.  For  it  may  appear  to  some 
persons  as  a  settled  principle  of  human  conduct  rather  than  an 
illustration  of  some  individual  phase  of  it.  If  this  were  true, 
the  writer  of  a  problem  story  would  invariably  receive  his  initial 
impulse  from  the  problem.  The  story  would  be  his  effort  to 
give  moral  law  concrete  expression  in  the  life  of  a  man.  The 
man  would  be  chosen  solely  because  he  was  just  the  sort  to  whom 
the  problem  could  come.  The  author  of  A  Dead  Issue  might 
be  thought  of  as  having  created  Marcus  Thorn  in  this  way. 
Yet  Marcus  Thorn  could  not  have  been  conceived  until  the 
moral  question  of  favoritism  in  giving  marks  had  assumed  some 
plot  form.  If  the  writer  had  decided  to  have  the  student  a 
flirtatious  girl,  Marcus  Thorn  would  have  been  an  entirely 
different  sort  of  man;  and  a  different  sort  still  if  the  student 
had  been  the  son  of  the  college  president  with  whom  the  in- 
structor wished  to  curry  favor. 

In  this  sense,  a  moral  issue  in  fiction  cannot  exist  as  a  sheer 
principle,  independent  of  the  characters  and  circumstances, 
and  we  may  now  affirm  that  characters  can  hardly  exist  inde- 
pendent of  moral  issues. 

If  the  moral  issue  in  The  Coward  were  of  a  slightly  different 
sort,  the  nature  of  the  central  character  would  have  to  be  corre- 
spondingly different.  The  Viscount  de  Signoles  finds  himself 
in  the  midst  of  a  crisis  because  he  fears  that  he  will  show  the 
white  feather  in  a  duel.  He  values  himself  only  for  his  gallant 
bearing  and  his  reputation  for  swash-buckling  bravado.     To 


HOW  TO  PRESENT  A  MORAL  ISSUE  401 

such  a  man  an  exhibition  of  cowardice  is  the  final  dishonor. 
Death  is  infinitely  to  be  preferred  to  that.  Suppose,  however, 
that  the  Viscount  has  been  very  active  in  a  movement  to  suppress 
duelling.  He  has  considered  the  custom  thoroughly  foolish 
and  demoralizing.  When  challenged  by  a  member  of  his  set, 
however,  he  has  not  the  moral  courage  to  brave  social  odium 
by  refusing  to  accept.  As  he  considers  his  course  of  action 
before  the  duel,  he  feels  that  by  fighting  he  will  imperil  the 
whole  social  reform  which  is  so  dear  to  him  and,  more  than  that, 
appear  ridiculously  inconsistent  and  shallow  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  Rather  than  face  this  public  scorn  of  his  character,  he 
commits  suicide.  The  struggles  of  the  two  characters  are  much 
alike.  Their  outcome  is  identical.  However,  the  moral  issue 
in  each  case  is  essentially  different;  hence  the  characters  would 
necessarily  be  quite  unlike. 

These  divergent  facts  tend  to  show  that  a  story  in  which  a 
moral  issue  is  skillfully  presented  is  one  of  the  most  highly 
composed  forms  of  narrative.  It  accomplishes  most  surely 
an  organic  union  of  two  of  its  formative  elements  —  character 
and  problem.  Largely  for  this  reason  the  presentation  of  a  case 
of  conduct  in  a  narrative  makes  the  strongest  appeal  to  a  thought- 
ful reader  eager  to  increase  his  critical  knowledge  of  life  through 
fiction.  The  composition  of  such  a  story  is  perhaps  the  most 
valuable  exercise  for  a  student  intent  upon  seeing  life  through 
the  steady  vision  of  the  understanding. 


XXIX.   THE   GREATER  LOVE1 

Bartimeus 

f  This  story  gives  enough  of  the  mental  surroundings  of  an  act  of  physical  courage 
to  relate  it  to  everyday  life  and  to  let  it  symbolize  a  great  problem  of  duty.  It  is 
interesting  to  examine  one's  own  life  for  a  corresponding  opportunity  to  act  —  not 
for  a  similar  rare  and  heroic  opportunity,  perhaps,  but  for  the  everyday  oppor- 
tunity to  symbolize  "the  greater  love. "3 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  a  lurid  bank  of  cloud  above  the 
hills  of  Spain,  and,  as  is  usual  at  Gibraltar  about  that  hour,  a 
light  breeze  sprang  up.  It  eddied  round  the  Rock  and  scurried 
across  the  harbor,  leaving  dark  cat's-paws  in  its  trail;  finally 
it  reached  the  inner  mole,  alongside  which  a  cruiser  was  lying. 

A  long  pendant  of  white  bunting,  that  all  day  had  hung 
listlessly  from  the  main  topmast,  stirred,  wavered,  and  finally 
bellied  out  astern,  the  gilded  bladder  at  the  tail  bobbing  uneasily 
over  the  surface  of  the  water. 

The  Officer  of  the  Watch  leaned  over  the  rail  and  watched  the 
antics  of  the  bladder,  round  which  a  flock  of  querulous  gulls 
circled  and  screeched.  "The  paying-off  pendant2  looks  as  if 
it  were  impatient,"  he  said  laughingly  to  an  Engineer  Lieutenant 
standing  at  his  side. 

The  other  smiled  in  his  slow  way  and  turned  seaward,  nodding 
across  the  bay  towards  Algeciras.  "Not  much  longer  to  wait 
—  there's  the  steamer  with  the  mail  coming  across  now."  He 
took  a  couple  of  steps  across  the  deck  and  turned.  "Only 
another  1200  miles.  Isn't  it  ripping  to  think  of,  after  three 
years  .  .  .  ? "     He  rubbed  his  hands  with  boyish  satisfaction. 

1  Reprinted  from  Naval  Occasions  with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company  and  of  the  author. 

2  A  pendant,  one-and-a-quarter  times  the  length  of  the  ship,  flown  by  ships 
homeward  bound  under  orders  to  pay  off. 


BARTIMEUS  403 

"All  the  coal  in  and  stowed  —  boats  turned  in,  funnels  smoking 
—  that's  what  I  like  to  see!  Only  the  mail  to  wait  for  now; 
and  the  gauges  down  below"  —  he  waggled  his  forefinger  in 
the  air,  laughing,  —  "like  that  .  .  .  !" 

The  Lieutenant  nodded  and  hitched  his  glass  under  his  arm. 
"Your  middle  watch,  Shortie?  Mine  too;  we  start  working  up 
for  our  passage  trial  then,  don't  we?  Whack  her  up,  lad  —  for 
England,  Home,  and  Beauty!" 

The  Engineer  Lieutenant  walked  towards  the  hatchway. 
"What  do  you  think!"  and  went  below  humming  — 

"  From  Ushant  to  Scilly  ..." 

The  Lieutenant  on  watch  turned  and  looked  up  at  the  Rock, 
towering  over  the  harbor.  Above  the  green-shuttered,  pink 
and  yellow  houses,  and  dusty,  sun-dried  vegetation,  the  grim 
pile  was  flushing  rose-color  against  the  pure  sky.  How  familiar 
it  was,  he  thought,  this  great  milestone  on  the  road  to  the  East, 
and  mused  awhile,  wondering  how  many  dawns  he  had  lain 
under  its  shadow;  how  many  more  sunsets  he  would  watch 
and  marvel  at  across  the  purple  Bay. 

•  "British  as  Brixton!"  He  had  read  the  phrase  in  a  book 
once,  describing  Gibraltar.  So  it  was,  when  you  were  home- 
ward bound.  He  resumed  his  measured  pacing  to  and  fro. 
The  ferry  steamer  had  finished  her  short  voyage  and  had  gone 
alongside  the  wharf,  out  of  sight  behind  an  arm  of  the  mole. 
Not  much  longer  to  wait  now.  He  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch. 
"Postie"  wouldn't  waste  much  time  getting  back.  Not  all  the 
beer  in  Waterport  Street  nor  all  the  glamor  of  the  "Ramps" 
would  lure  him  astray  to-night.  The  Lieutenant  paused  in  his 
measured  stride  and  beckoned  a  side-boy.  "Tell  the  signalman 
to  let  me  know  directly  the  postman  is  sighted  coming  along  the 
mole." 

He  resumed  his  leisurely  promenade,  wondering  how  many 
letters  there  would  be  for  him,  and  who  would  write.     His 


4o4  THE   GREATER  LOVE 

mother,  of  course,  .  .  .  and  Ted  at  Charterhouse.  His  specu- 
lations roamed  afield.  Any  one  else?  Then  he  suddenly 
remembered  the  Engineer  Lieutenant  imitating  the  twitching 
gauge-needle  with  his  forefinger.  Lucky  beggar  he  was.  There 
was  some  one  waiting  for  him  who  mattered  more  than  all  the 
Teds  in  the  world.  More  even  than  a  Mother  —  at  least,  he 
supposed.  .  .  .  His  thoughts  became  abruptly  sentimental 
and  tender. 

A  signalman,  coming  helter-skelter  down  the  ladder,  inter- 
rupted them,  as  the  Commander  stepped  out  of  his  cabin  on 
to  the  quarter-deck. 

"Postman  comin'  with  the  mail,  sir." 

A  few  minutes  later  a  hoist  of  flags  whirled  hurriedly  to  the 
masthead,  asking  permission  to  proceed  "in  execution  of  pre- 
vious orders."  What  those  orders  were,  even  the  paying-off 
pendant  knew,  trailing  aft  over  the  stern-walk  in  the  light 
wind. 


The  Rock  lay  far  astern  like  a  tinted  shadow,  an  opal  set  in 
a  blue-grey  sea.  Once  beyond  the  Straits  the  wind  freshened, 
and  the  cruiser  began  to  lift  her  lean  bows  to  the  swell,  flinging 
the  spray  aft  along  the  forecastle  in  silver  rain.  The  Marine 
bugler  steered  an  unsteady  course  to  the  quarterdeck  hatchway 
and  sounded  the  Officers'  Dinner  Call. 

"  Officers  wives  eat  puddings  and  pies, 
But  sailors'  wives  eat  skilly  ..." 

chanted  the  Lieutenant  of  the  impending  first  watch,  swaying 
to  the  roll  of  the  ship  as  he  adjusted  his  tie  before  the  mirror. 
He  thumped  the  bulkhead  between  his  cabin  and  the  adjoining 
one. 

"Buck  up,  Shortie!"  he  shouted;  "it's  Saturday  Night  at 
Sea!    Your  night  for  a  glass  of  port." 

"Sweethearts  and  wives!"  called  another  voice  across  the  flat. 


BARTIMEUS  405 

"You'll  get  drunk  to-night,  Snatcher,  if  you  try  to  drink  to 

all "  the  voice  died  away  and  rose  again  in  expostulation 

with  a  Marine  servant.  "...  Well,  does  it  look  like  a  clean 
shirt  .  .  .!" 

"Give  it  a  shake,  Pay,  and  put  it  on  like  a  man!"  Some 
one  else  had  joined  in  from  across  the  flat.  The  Engineer 
Lieutenant  pushed  his  head  inside  his  neighbor's  cabin : 
"Come  along  —  come  along!  You'll  be  late  for  dinner. 
Fresh  grub  to-night:  no  more  'Russian  Kromeskis'  and 
'Fanny  Adams'!" 

"One  second.  .  .  .  Right!"  They  linked  arms  and  entered 
the  Wardroom  as  the  President  tapped  the  table  for  grace. 
The  Surgeon  scanned  the  menu  with  interest.  "  Jasus!  Phwat 
diet!"  he  ejaculated,  quoting  from  an  old  Service  story.  "Lis- 
ten!" and  read  out  — 

"Soup:   Clear." 

"That's  boiled  swabs,"  interposed  the  Junior  Watch-keeper. 

"Mr.  President,  sir,  I  object  —  this  Officer's  unladylike  con- 
versation." 

"Round  of  port  —  fine  him!"  interrupted  several  laughing 
voices. 

"Goon,  Doc;   what  next?" 

"Fish:  'Millets.'" 

"Main  drain  loungers,"  from  the  Junior  Watch-keeper. 
"Isn't  he  a  little  Lord  Fauntleroy  —  two  rounds  of  port!" 

"Entree:  Russian  Kromeskis "     A  roar  of  protest. 

"And ?" 

"Mutton  cutlets." 

"Goat,  he  means.  What  an  orgie!  Go  on;  fain  would  we 
hear  the  worst,  fair  chirurgeon,"  blathered  the  Paymaster. 
"Joint?" 

"Joint;   mutton  or " 

"Princely  munificence,"  murmured  the  First  Lieutenant. 
"  He's  not  a  messman :  he 's  a  —  a  —  what 's  the  word?'"' 


406  THE  GREATER  LOVE 

"Philanthropist.    What's  the  awful  alternative?" 

"There  isn't  any;  it's  scratched  out."  The  A.P.  and  the 
Junior  Watch-keeper  clung  to  each  other.  "The  originality 
of  the  creature!    And  the  duff?" 

"Rice-pudding." 

"Ah  me!  alack-a-day!"  The  Paymaster  tore  his  hair.  "I 
must  prophesy.  I  must  prophesy,  —  shut  up,  every  one!  Shut 
up!"  He  closed  his  eyes  and  pawed  the  air  feebly.  "I'm  a 
medium.  I'm  going  to  prophesy.  I  feel  it  coming.  .  .  .  The 
savory  is  .  .  .  the  savory  is"  —  there  was  a  moment's  tense 
silence  —  "sardines  on  toast."  He  opened  his  eyes.  "Am  I 
right,  sir?     Thank  you." 

The  Surgeon  leaned  forward,  and  picking  up  the  massive  silver 
shooting  trophy  that  occupied  the  centre  of  the  table,  handed 
it  to  a  waiter. 

"Take  that  to  the  Paymaster,  please.  First  prize  for  divi- 
nation and  second  sight.  And  you,  Snatcher  —  you  '11  go  down 
for  another  round  of  port  if  you  keep  on  laughing  with  your 
mouth  full." 

So  the  meal  progressed.  The  "mullets"  were  disentangled 
from  their  paper  jackets  amid  a  rustling  silence  of  interrogation. 
The'  Worcester  sauce  aided  and  abetted  the  disappearance  of 
the  Russian  Kromeskis,  as  it  had  so  often  done  before.  The 
mutton  was  voted  the  limit,  and  the  rice-pudding  held  evidences 
that  the  cook's  hair  wanted  cutting.  The  Junior  Watch- 
keeper  —  proud  officer  of  that  functionary's  division  —  vowed 
he's  have  it  cut  in  a  manner  which  calls  for  no  description  in 
these  pages.  There  weren't  any  sardines  on  toast.  The 
Philanthropist  appeared  in  person,  with  dusky,  upturned  palms, 
to  deplore  the  omission. 

"Ow!  signor  —  olla  fineesh!  I  make  mistake!  No  have 
got  sardines,  signor  .  .  .  !" 

"Dear  old  Ah  Ying!"  sighed  the  Engineer  Lieutenant,  "I 
never  really  loved  him  till  this  minute.    Why  did  we  leave  him 


BARTIMEUS  407 

at  Hong-Kong  and  embark  this  snake-in-the-grass.  .  .  .  No 
sardines  .  .  .  !" 

But  for  all  that  every  one  seemed  to  have  made  an  admirable 
meal,  and  the  Chaplain's  "For  what  we  have  received,  thank 
God!"  brought  it  to  a  close.  The  table  was  cleared,  the  wine 
decanters  passed  round,  and  once  again  the  President  tapped 
with  his  ivory  mallet.     There  was  a  little  silence  — 

"Mr  Vice  — the  King!" 

The  First  Lieutenant  raised  his  glass.  "  Gentlemen  —  the 
King!" 

"The  King!"  murmured  the  Mess,  with  faces  grown  suddenly 
decorous  and  grave.  At  that  moment  the  Corporal  of  the  Watch 
entered ;  he  glanced  down  the  table,  and  approaching  the  Junior 
Watch-keeper's  chair  saluted  and  said  something  in  an  under- 
tone. The  Junior  Watch-keeper  nodded,  finished  his  port,  and 
rose,  folding  his  napkin.  His  neighbor,  the  Engineer  Lieutenant, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  speaking  over  his  shoulder  — 

"You'r  First  Watch,  James?" 

The  other  nodded. 

"Then,"  with  mock  solemnity,  "may  I  remind  you  that  our 
lives  are  in  your  hands  till  twelve  o'clock?  Don't  forget  that, 
will  you?" 

The  Junior  Watch-keeper  laughed.  "I'll  bear  it  in  mind." 
At  the  doorway  he  turned  with  a  smile:  "It  won't  be  the  first 
time  your  valuable  life  has  been  there." 

"Or  the  last,  we'll  hope." 

"We'll  hope  not,  Shortie." 

The  buzz  of  talk  and  chaff  had  again  begun  to  ebb  and  flow 
round  the  long  table.  The  First  Lieutenant  lit  a  cigarette  and 
began  collecting  napkin-rings,  placing  them  eventually  in  a  row, 
after  the  manner  of  horses  at  the  starting-post.  "Seven  to 
one  on  the  field,  bar  one  —  Chief,  your  ring's  disqualified.  It 
would  go  through  the  ship's  side.  Now,  wait  for  the  next  roll  — 
stand  by!   Clear  that  flower-pot " 


408  THE  GREATER  LOVE 

"Disqualified  be  blowed!  Why,  I  turned  it  myself  when  I 
was  a  student,  out  of  a  bit  of  brass  I  stole " 

"Can't  help  that;  it  weighs  a  ton  —  scratched  at  the 
post!" 

The  Commander  tapped  the  table  with  his  little  hammer  — 

"May  I  remind  you  all  that  it's  Saturday  Night  at  Sea?" 
and  gave  the  decanters  a  little  push  towards  his  left-hand 
neighbor.  The  First  Lieutenant  brushed  the  starters  into  a 
heap  at  his  side;    the  faintest  shadow  passed  across  his  brow. 

"So  it  is!"  echoed  several  voices. 

"Now,  Shortie,  fill  up !  Snatcher,  you 'd  better  have  a  bucket. 
.  .  .  'There's  a  Burmah  girl  a-settin'  an'  I  know  she  thinks,' 
port,  Number  One?"  The  First  Lieutenant  signed  an  imper- 
ceptible negation  and  pushed  the  decanter  round,  murmuring 
something  about  hereditary  gout. 

It  was  ten  years  since  he  had  drunk  that  toast:  since  a  certain 
tragic  dawn,  stealing  into  the  bedroom  of  a  Southsea  lodging, 
found  him  on  his  knees  at  a  bedside.  .  .  .  They  all  knew  the 
story,  as  men  in  Naval  Messes  afloat  generally  do  know  each 
other's  tragedies  and  joys.  And  yet  his  right-hand  neighbor 
invariably  murmured  the  same  formula  as  he  passed  the  wine  on 
Saturday  nights  at  sea.  In  its  way  it  was  considered  a  rather 
subtle  intimation  that  no  one  wanted  to  pry  into  his  sorrow  — 
even  to  the  extent  of  presuming  that  he  would  never  drink  that 
health  again. 

In  the  same  way  they  all  knew  that  it  was  the  one  occasion 
on  which  the  little  Engineer  Lieutenant  permitted  himself  the 
extravagance  of  wine.  He  was  saving  up  to  get  married;  and 
perhaps  for  the  reason  that  he  had  never  mentioned  the  fact, 
every  one  not  only  knew  it,  but  loved  and  chaffed  him  for  it. 

The  decanters  traveled  round,  and  the  First  Lieutenant 
leaned  across  to  the  Engineer  Lieutenant,  who  was  contem- 
platively watching  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette.  There  was  a 
whimsical  smile  in  the  grave,  level  eyes. 


BARTIMEUS  409 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  think  about  rigging  a  garland l 
before  long,  eh?" 

The  other  laughed  half -shyly.  "Yes,  before  long,  I  hope, 
Number  One." 

Down  came  the  ivory  hammer  — 

"Gentlemen  —  Sweethearts  and  Wives!" 

"And  may  they  never  meet!"  added  the  Engineer  Commander. 
In  reality  the  most  domesticated  and  blameless  of  husbands,  it 
was  the  ambition  of  his  life  to  be  esteemed  a  sad  dog,  and  that 
men  should  shake  their  heads  over  him  crying  "Fie!" 

The  First  Lieutenant  gathered  together  his  silver  rings. 
"Now  then,  clear  the  table.  She's  rolling  like  a  good  'un. 
Seven  to  one  on  the  field,  bar " 

"Speech!"  broke  in  the  Paymaster.  "Speech,  Shortie! 
Few  words  by  a  young  officer  about  to  embark  on  the  troubled 
sea  of  matrimony.     Hints  on  the  Home " 

The  prospective  bridegroom  shook  his  head,  laughing,  and 
colored  in  a  way  rather  pleasant  to  see.  He  rose,  pushing  in 
his  chair.  In  the  inside  pocket  of  his  mess-jacket  was  an  un- 
opened letter,  saved  up  to  read  over  a  pipe  in  peace. 

"  My  advice  to  you  all  is " 

"  Don't,  "  from  the  Engineer  Commander. 

"Mind  your  own  business,"  and  the  Engineer  Lieutenant 
fled  from  the  Mess  amid  derisive  shouts  of  "Coward!"  The 
voice  of  the  First  Lieutenant  rose  above  the  hubbub  — 

"  Seven  to  one  on  the  field  —  and  what  about  a  jump  or  two? 
Chuck  up  the  menu-card,  Pay.  Now,  boys,  roll,  bowl,  or 
pitch  .  .  .  '  Every  time  a  blood-orange  or  a  good  see-gar'  .  .  .!" 

The  Officer  of  the  First  Watch  leaned  out  over  the  bridge 
rails,  peering  into  the  darkness  that  enveloped  the  forecastle, 

1  A  garland  of  evergreens  is  triced  up  to  the  triatic  stay  between  the  masts  on 
the  occasion  of  an  officer's  marriage. 


410  THE  GREATER  LOVE 

and  listening  intently.  The  breeze  had  freshened,  and  the  cruiser 
slammed  her  way  into  a  rising  sea,  laboring  with  the  peculiar 
motion  known  as  a  "cork-screw  roll"  ;  the  night  was  very  dark. 
Presently  he  turned  and  walked  to  the  chart-house  door;  inside, 
the  Navigation  Officer  was  leaning  over  the  chart,  wrinkling 
his  brows  as  he  pencilled  a  faint  line. 

"Pilot,"  said  the  other,  "just  step  out  here  a  second." 

The  Navigator  looked  up,  pushing  his  cap  from  his  forehead. 
"What's  up?" 

"I  think  the  starboard  anchor  is  'talking.'  I  wish  you'd 
come  and  listen  a  moment."  The  Navigator  stepped  out  on  to 
the  bridge,  closing  the  chart-house  door  after  him,  and  paused 
a  moment  to  accustom  his  eyes  to  the  darkness.  "  Dark  night, 
isn't  it?  Wind's  getting  up,  too.  .  .  ."  He  walked  to  the 
end  of  the  bridge  and  leaned  out.  The  ship  plunged  into  a  hol- 
low with  a  little  shudder  and  then  flung  her  bows  upwards  into 
a  cascade  of  spray.  A  dull  metallic  sound  detached  itself  from 
the  sibilant  rushing  of  water  and  the  beat  of  waves  against  the 
ship's  side,  repeating  faintly  with  each  roll  of  the  ship  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  anchor-bed.  The  Navigator  nodded: 
"Yes,  .  .  .  one  of  the  securing  chains  wants  tautening,  I  should 
say.  ' Sal tash  Luck' 1  for  some  one!"  He  moved  back  into  the 
chart-house  and  picked  up  the  parallel-rulers  again. 

The  Lieutenant  of  the  Watch  went  to  the  head  of  the  ladder 
and  called  the  Boatswain's  Mate,  who  was  standing  in  the  lee 
of  the  conning-tower  yarning  with  the  Corporal  of  the  Watch  — 

"Pipe  the  duty  sub.  of  the  watch  to  fall  in  with  oilskins  on; 
when  they're  present,  take  them  on  to  the  forecastle  and  set  up 
the  securing  chain  of  the  starboard  bower-anchor.  Something's 
worked  loose.  See  that  any  one  who  goes  outside  the  rail  has 
a  bowline  on." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir."  The  Boatswain's  Mate  descended  the  lad- 
der, giving  a  few  preliminary  "cheeps"  with  his  pipe  before 

1  A  thorough  wetting. 


BARTIMEUS  411 

delivering  himself  of  his  tidings  of  "Saltash  Luck"  to  the  duty 
sub.  of  the  port  watch. 

The  Officer  of  the  Watch  gave  an  order  to  the  telegraph- 
man  on  the  bridge,  and  far  below  in  the  engine-room  they  heard 
the  clang  of  the  telegraph  gongs.  He  turned  into  the  chart- 
house  and  opened  the  ship's  log,  glancing  at  the  clock  as  he  did 
so.     Then  he  wrote  with  a  stumpy  bit  of  pencil  — 

"9.18.  Decreased  speed  to  6  knots.  Duty  sub.  secured 
starboard  bower-anchor." 

He  returned  to  the  bridge  and  leaned  over  the  rail,  straining 
his  eyes  into  the  darkness  and  driving  spray  towards  the  indis- 
tinct group  of  men  working  on  the  streaming  forecastle.  In 
the  light  of  a  swaying  lantern  he  could  make  out  a  figure  getting 
out  on  to  the  anchor-bed;  another  was  turning  up  with  a  rope's 
end;  he  heard  the  faint  click  of  a  hammer  on  metal.  The  ship 
lurched  and  plunged  abruptly  into  the  trough  of  a  sea.  An 
oath,  clear-cut  and  distinct,  tossed  aft  on  the  wind,  and  a  quick 
shout. 

He  turned  aft  and  rushed  to  the  top  of  the  ladder,  bawling 
down  between  curved  palms  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs. 


The  Engineer  Lieutenant  who  left  the  wardroom  after  dinner 
did  not  immediately  go  on  deck.  He  went  first  to  his  cabin, 
where  he  filled  and  lit  a  pipe,  and  changed  his  mess-jacket  for 
a  comfortable,  loose-fitting  monkey-jacket.  Then  he  settled 
down  in  his  armchair,  wedged  his  feet  against  the  bunk  to 
steady  himself  against  the  roll  of  the  ship,  and  read  his  letter. 
Often  as  he  read  he  smiled,  and  once  he  blinked  a  little,  misty- 
eyed.     The  last  sheet  he  re-read  several  times. 

"...  Oh,  isn't  it  good  to  think  of!  It  was  almost  worth 
the  pain  of  separation  to  have  this  happiness  now  —  to  know 
that  every  minute  is  bringing  you  nearer.  I  wake  up  in  the 
morning  with  that  happy  sort  of  feeling  that  something  nice 


412  THE  GREATER  LOVE 

is  going  to  happen  soon  —  and  then  I  realize:  you  are  coming 
Home!  I  jump  out  of  bed  and  tear  another  leaf  off  the  calendar, 
—  there  are  only  nine  left  now,  and  then  comes  one  marked  with 
a  big  cross.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  the  kind  of  happiness  that 
hurts?  Or  is  it  only  a  girl  who  can  feel  it?  ...  I  pray  every 
night  that  the  days  may  pass  quickly,  and  that  you  may  come 
safely." 

It  was  a  very  ordinary  little  love-letter,  with  its  shy  admixture 
of  love  and  faith  and  piety:  the  sort  so  few  men  ever  earn,  and 
so  many  (in  Heaven's  mercy)  are  suffered  to  receive.  The  re- 
cipient folded  it  carefully,  replaced  it  in  its  envelope,  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket.    Then  he  lifted  his  head  suddenly,  listening.  .  .  . 

Down  below,  the  engine-room  telegraph  gong  had  clanged, 
and  the  steady  beat  of  the  engines  slowed.  With  an  eye  on  his 
wrist-watch  he  counted  the  muffled  strokes  of  the  piston.  .  .  . 
Decreased  to  6  knots.  What  was  the  matter?  Fog?  He  rose 
and  leaned  over  his  bunk,  peering  through  the  scuttle.  Quite 
clear.  He  decided  to  light  a  pipe  and  go  on  deck  for  a  "  breather" 
before  turning  in,  and  glanced  at  the  little  clock  ticking  on  the 
bulkhead.  Twenty  past  nine;  ten  minutes  walk  on  the  quarter- 
deck and  then  to  bed.     It  was  his  middle  watch. 

As  he  left  his  cabin  some  one  in  the  wardroom  began  softly 
playing  the  piano,  and  the  Paymaster's  clear  baritone  joined  in, 
singing  a  song  about  somebody's  grey  eyes  watching  for  some- 
body else.  The  Mess  was  soaking  in  sentiment  to-night: 
must  be  the  effect  of  Saturday  Night  at  Sea,  he  reflected. 

He  reached  the  quarter-deck  and  stood  looking  round,  sway- 
ing easily  with  the  motion  of  the  ship.  The  sea  was  getting  up, 
and  the  wind  blew  a  stream  of  tiny  sparks  from  his  pipe.  Farther 
aft  the  sentry  on  the  life-buoys  was  mechanically  walking  his 
beat,  now  toiling  laboriously  up  a  steep  incline,  now  trying  to 
check  a  too  precipitous  descent.  The  Engineer  Lieutenant 
watched  him  for  a  moment,  listening  to  the  notes  of  the  piano 
tinkling  up  through  the  open  skylight  from  the  wardroom. 


BARTIMEUS  413 

"  I  know  of  two  white  arms 
Waiting  for  me  ...  " 

The  singer  had  started  another  verse;  the  Engineer  Lieutenant 
smiled  faintly,  and  walked  to  the  ship's  side  to  stare  out  into  the 
darkness.  Why  on  earth  had  they  slowed  down?  A  sudden 
impatience  filled  him.  Every  minute  was  precious  now. 
Why 

"Man  Overboard.  Away  Lifeboat's  Crewl"  Not  for  nothing 
had  the  Officer  of  the  Watch  received  a  "Masts  and  Yards" 
upbringing;  the  wind  forward  caught  the  stentorian  shout  and 
hurled  it  along  the  booms  and  battery,  aft  to  the  quarter-deck 
where  the  little  Engineer  Lieutenant  was  standing,  one  hand 
closed  over  the  glowing  bowl  of  his  pipe,  the  other  thrust  into 
his  trousers  pocket. 

The  engine-room  telegraph  began  clanging  furiously,  the 
sound  passing  up  the  casings  and  ventilators  into  the  night; 
then  the  Boatswain's  Mate  sent  his  ear-piercing  pipe  along  the 
decks,  calling  away  the  lifeboat's  crew.  The  sentry  on  the  life- 
buoys wrenched  at  the  releasing  knob  of  one  of  his  charges  and 
ran  across  to  the  other. 

The  leaden  seconds  passed,  and  the  Engineer  still  stood  beside 
the  rail,  mechanically  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  .  .  . 
Then  something  went  past  on  the  crest  of  a  wave:  something 
white  that  might  have  been  a  man's  face,  or  broken  water 
showing  up  in  the  glare  of  a  scuttle.  ...  A  sound  out  of  the 
darkness  that  might  have  been  the  cry  of  a  low-flying  gull. 

Now  it  may  be  argued  that  the  Engineer  Lieutenant  ought 
to  have  stayed  where  he  was.  Going  overboard  on  such  a  night 
was  too  risky  for  a  man  whose  one  idea  was  to  get  home  as 
quickly  as  possible  —  who,  a  moment  before,  had  chafed  at 
the  delay  of  reduced  speed.  Furthermore,  he  had  in  his  pocket 
a  letter  bidding  him  come  home  safely;  and  for  three  years  he 
had  denied  himself  his  little  luxuries  for  love  of  her  who  wrote 
it.  .  .  . 


4H  THE  GREATER  LOVE 

All  the  same  —  would  she  have  him  stand  and  wonder  if 
that  was  a  gull  he  had  heard  .  .  .? 

Love  of  women,  Love  of  life.  .  .  . !  Mighty  factors  —  almost 
supreme.  Yet  a  mortal  has  stayed  in  a  wrecked  stokehold, 
amid  the  scalding  steam,  to  find  and  shut  a  valve;  Leper  Settle- 
ments have  their  doctors  and  pastor;  and  "A  very  gallant 
Gentleman"  walks  unhesitatingly  into  an  Antarctic  blizzard, 
to  show  there  is  a  love  stronger  and  higher  even  than  these. 

The  Engineer  Lieutenant  was  concerned  with  none  of  these 
fine  thoughts.  For  one  second  he  did  pause,  looking  about  as 
if  for  somewhere  to  put  his  pipe.  Then  he  tossed  it  on  to  the 
deck,  scrambled  over  the  rail,  took  a  deep  breath,  and  dived. 

The  Marine  Sentry  ran  to  the  side  of  the  ship. 

"Christ!"  he  gasped,  and  forsook  his  post,  to  cry  the  tale 
aloud  along  the  seething  battery. 

The  ship  shuddered  as  the  engines  were  reversed,  and  the 
water  under  the  stern  began  to  seethe  and  churn.  The  Com- 
mander had  left  his  cabin  and  was  racing  up  to  the  bridge 
as  the  Captain  reached  the  quarter-deck.  A  knot  of  officers 
gathered  on  the  after-bridge. 

"Pin's  out,  sir!"  shouted  the  Coxswain  of  the  sea-boat, 
and  added  under  his  breath,  "Oars  all  ready,  lads!  Stan'  by 
to  pull  like  bloody  'ell  —  there's  two  of  'em  in  the  ditch.  .  .  ." 

The  boat  was  hanging  a  few  feet  above  the  tumbling  water. 

"Slip!"  shouted  a  voice  from  the  invisible  fore-bridge.  An 
instant's  pause,  and  the  boat  dropped  with  a  crash  on  to  a 
rising  wave.  There  was  a  clatter  and  thud  of  oars  in  row- 
locks; the  clanking  of  the  chain-slings,  and  the  boat,  with  her 
motley-clad1  life-belted  crew,  slid  off  down  the  slant  of  a  wave. 
For  a  moment  the  glare  of  an  electric  light  lit  the  faces  of  the 
men,  tugging  and  straining  grimly  at  their  oars;  then  she  van- 
ished, to  reappear  a  moment  later  on  the  crest  of  a  sea,  and 
disappeared  again  into  the  darkness. 

1  Every  one  near  the  boat  responds  to  the  call  "  Away  Lifeboat's  Crew!" 


BARTIMEUS  415 

The  Commander  on  the  fore-bridge  snatched  up  a  megaphone, 
shouting  down- wind  — 

"Pull  to  starboard,  cutter!      Make  for  the  life-buoy  light!" 

The  watchers  on  the  after-bridge  were  peering  into  the  night 
with  binoculars  and  glasses.  The  A.P.  extended  an  arm  and 
forefinger:  " There's  the  life-buoy  —  there!  .  .  .  Now  —  there! 
D'you  see  it?  You  can  just  see  the  flare  when  it  lifts  on  a  wave 
.  .  .  Ah!     That's  better!" 

The  dazzling  white  beam  from  a  search-light  on  the  fore- 
bridge  leaped  suddenly  into  the  night.  "Now  we  can  see  the 
cutter — "  the  beam  wavered  a  moment  and  finally  steadied. 
"  Yes,  there  they  are.  ...  I  say,  there 's  a  devil  of  a  sea  running." 

"Ripping  sea-boats  our  Service  cutters  are,"  said  another, 
staring  through  his  glasses.  "They'll  live  in  almost  anything; 
but  this  isn't  a  dangerous  sea.  The  skipper'll  turn  in  a  minute 
and  make  a  lee  for  them." 

"Think  old  Shortie  reached  the  buoy?" 

"Probably  swimming  about  looking  for  the  other  fellow,  if 
I  know  anything  of  him;  who  did  he  go  in  after?" 

"One  of  the  duty  sub.  —  they  were  securing  the  anchor  or 
something  forward,  and  the  bowline  slipped " 

"By  gad!  He's  got  him!  There's  the  buoy  —  yes,  two  of 
them.  Good  old  Shortie.  .  .  .  My  God!  Good  old  Shortie!" 
The  speaker  executed  a  sort  of  war-dance  and  trod  on  the 
Paymaster's  toes. 

"When  you've  quite  finished,  Snatcher.  .  .  .  By  the  way, 
what  about  hot-water  bottles  —  blankets  —  stimulants.  .  .  . 
First  aid:  come  along!  'Assure  the  patient  in  a  loud  voice 
that  he  is  safe.'  .  .  .  'Aspect  cheerful  but  subdued.'  ...  I 
learned  the  whole  rigmarole  once!" 

From  the  fore  upper  bridge  the  Captain  was  handling  his 
ship  like  a  packet-boat. 

"  'Midships  —  steady!  Stop  both!"  He  raised  his  mouth 
from  the  voice-pipe  to  the  helmsman,  and  nodded  to  the  Officer 


4i6  THE   GREATER  LOVE 

of  the  Watch.  "She'll  do  now.  ...  The  wind '11  take  her 
down." 

The  Commander  leaned  over  the  rail  and  called  the  Boat- 
swain 's  Mate  — 

"Clear  lower  deck!     Man  the  falls!" 

The  ranks  of  men  along  the  ship's  side  turned  inboard,  and 
passed  the  ropes  aft,  in  readiness  to  hoist  the  boat.  There  were 
three  hundred  men  on  the  falls,  standing  by  to  whisk  the  cutter 
to  the  davit-heads  like  a  cockle-shell. 

"They've  got  'em  —  got  'em  both!"  murmured  the  deep 
voices;  they  spat  impatiently.  "What  say,  lads?  Stamp 
an'  go  with  'er?" 

"Silence  in  the  battery!     Marry!" 

The  Commander  was  leaning  over  the  bridge  rails;  the  Sur- 
geon and  two  Sick-berth  Stewards  were  waiting  by  the  davits. 
Alongside  the  cutter  was  rising  and  falling  on  the  waves.  .  . 

" — All  right,  sir!"  The  voice  of  the  Coxswain  came  up  as  if 
from  the  deep.  They  had  hooked  the  plunging  boat  on  some- 
how, and  his  thumb-nail  was  a  pulp.  .  .  . 

Three  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  turned  towards  the  fore-bridge. 

"Hoist  away!" 

No  need  for  the  Boatswain's  Mate  to  echo  the  order;  no  need 
for  the  Petty  Officers  "With  a  will,  then,  lads!"  They  rushed 
aft  in  a  wild  stampede,  hauling  with  every  ounce  of  beef  and 
strength  in  their  bodies.  The  cutter,  dripping  and  swaying, 
her  crew  fending  her  off  the  rolling  ship  with  their  stretchers, 
shot  up  to  the  davits. 

"High  'nough!" 

The  rush  stopped  like  one  man.  Another  pull  on  the  after- 
fall —  enough.     She  was  hoisted.     "Walk  back!  .  .  .  Lie  to!" 

A  tense  silence  fell  upon  the  crowded  battery:  the  only  sound 
that  of  men  breathing  hard.  A  limp  figure  was  seen  descending 
the  Jacob's  ladder  out  of  the  boat,  assisted  by  two  of  the  crew. 
Ready  hands  were  outstretched  to  help,  and  the  next  moment 


BARTIMEUS  417 

Willie  Sparling,  Ordinary  Seaman,  Official  Number  13728,  was 
once  more  on  the  deck  of  a  man-of-war  —  a  place  he  never 
expected  to  see  again. 

"Ow!"  He  winced,  "Min'  my  shoulder  —  it's  'urted.  .  .  ." 
He  looked  round  at  the  familiar  faces  lit  by  the  electric  lights, 
and  jerked  his  head  back  at  the  boat  hanging  from  her  davits. 
"'E  saved  my  life  —  look  after  'im.  'E's  a  .  .  .  e's  a  — 
bleedin'  'ero,  ..."  and  Willie  Sparling,  with  a  broken  collar- 
bone, collapsed  dramatically  enough. 

The  Engineer  Lieutenant  swung  himself  down  on  to  the  upper 
deck  and  stooped  to  wring  the  water  from  his  trousers.  The 
Surgeon  seized  him  by  the  arm  — 

"Come  along,  Shortie  —  in  between  the  blankets  with  you!" 

The  hero  of  the  moment  disengaged  his  arm  and  shook 
himself  like  a  terrier.  "Blankets  be  blowed  —  it's  my  Middle 
Watch." 

The  Surgeon  laughed.  "Plenty  of  time  for  that:  it's  only 
just  after  half-past  nine.     What  about  a  hot  toddy?" 

"Lord!    I  thought  I'd  been  in  the  water  for  hours.  .  .  . 

Yes,  by  Jove!  a  hot  toddy "     He  paused  and  looked  round, 

his  face  suddenly  anxious.  "By  the  way,  .  .  .  any  one  seen 
a  pipe  sculling  about  .  .  .?" 

Down  below  the  telegraph  gongs  clanged,  and  the  ship's 
bows  swung  round  on  to  her  course,  heading  once  more  for 
England,  Home,  and  Beauty. 


XXX.  VIS  ET  VIR1 

Victor  Hugo 

[It  is  the  spring  of  1793.  The  Claymore,  an  English  corvette  manned  by 
French  Royalists  has  left  the  Channel  Island  of  Jersey  for  the  coast  of  Brittany. 
She  is  evidently  bound  on  some  mission  of  vast  importance.  On  board  is  a  mysteri- 
ous old  man,  disguised  as  a  peasant.  He  is  said  to  be  the  leader  of  the  royalist's 
faction  of  La  Vendee.  As  the  vessel  makes  toward  the  coast  of  France,  the  Count 
de  Boisberthelot  and  the  Chevalier  de  la  Vieuville  discuss  the  qualifications  of  the 
peasant,  who  seems  to  be  a  Breton  prince,  to  wage  a  cruel  and  relentless  war  against 
the  regicides.  They  are  in  the  midst  of  an  argument  when  interrupted  by  the 
present  train  of  incidents,  the  end  of  which  conclusively  settles  the  issue  for  them. 3 


Boisberthelot  had  no  time  to  reply  to  la  Vieuville.  La 
Vieuville  was  suddenly  cut  short  by  a  cry  of  despair,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  noise  was  heard  wholly  unlike  any  other  sound. 
This  cry  and  the  noise  came  from  within  the  vessel. 

The  captain  and  lieutenant  rushed  towards  the  gun-deck, 
but  could  not  get  down.  All  the  gunners  were  pouring  up  in 
dismay.     Something  terrible  had  just  happened. 

One  of  the  carronades  of  the  battery,  a  twenty-four  pounder, 
had  broken  loose. 

This  is  the  most  dangerous  accident  that  can  possibly  take 
place  on  shipboard.  Nothing  more  terrible  can  happen  to  a 
sloop  of  war  in  open  sea  and  under  full  sail. 

A  cannon  that  breaks  its  moorings  suddenly  becomes  some 
strange,  supernatural  beast.  It  is  a  machine  transformed  into 
a  monster.  That  short  mass  on  wheels  moves  like  a  billiard- 
ball,  rolls  with  the  rolling  of  the  ship,  plunges  with  the  pitching, 
goes,  comes,  stops,  seems  to  meditate,  starts  on  its  course  again, 
shoots  like  an  arrow,  from  one  end  of  the  vessel  to  the  other, 
whirls  around,  slips  away,  dodges,  rears,  bangs,  crashes,  kills, 

1  Reprinted  from  Ninety-three. 


VICTOR  HUGO  419 

exterminates.  It  is  a  battering  ram  capriciously  assaulting 
a  wall.  Add  to  this,  the  fact  that  the  ram  is  of  metal,  the  wall 
of  wood. 

It  is  matter  set  free;  one  might  say  that  this  eternal  slave 
was  avenging  itself;  it  seems  as  if  the  total  depravity  con- 
cealed in  what  we  call  inanimate  things  had  escaped,  and 
burst  forth  all  of  a  sudden;  it  appears  to  lose  patience,  and  to 
take  a  strange  mysterious  revenge;  nothing  is  more  relentless 
than  this  wrath  of  the  inanimate.  This  enraged  lump  leaps 
like  a  panther,  it  has  the  clumsiness  of  an  elephant,  the  nim- 
bleness  of  a  mouse,  the  obstinacy  of  an  ox,  the  uncertainty 
of  the  billows,  the  zigzag  of  the  lightning,  the  deafness  of  the 
grave.  It  weighs  ten  thousand  pounds,  and  it  rebounds  like 
a  child's  ball.  It  spins  and  then  abruptly  darts  off  at  right 
angles. 

And  what  is  to  be  done?  How  put  an  end  to  it?  A  tem- 
pest ceases,  a  cyclone  passes  over,  a  wind  dies  down,  a  broken 
mast  can  be  replaced,  a  leak  can  be  stopped,  a  fire  extinguished, 
but  what  will  become  of  this  enormous  brute  of  bronze?  How 
can  it  be  captured?  You  can  reason  with  a  bull-dog,  astonish 
a  bull,  fascinate  a  boa,  frighten  a  tiger,  tame  a  lion;  but  you 
have  no  resource  against  this  monster,  a  loose  cannon.  You 
cannot  kill  it,  it  is  dead;  and  at  the  same  time  it  lives.  It  lives 
with  a  sinister  life  which  comes  to  i.t  from  the  infinite.  The 
deck  beneath  it  gives  it  full  swing.  It  is  moved  by  the  ship, 
which  is  moved  by  the  sea,  which  is  moved  by  the  wind.  This 
destroyer  is  a  toy.  The  ship,  the  waves,  the  winds,  all  play 
with  it,  hence  its  frightful  animation.  What  is  to  be  done  with 
this  apparatus?  How  fetter  this  stupendous  engine  of  destruc- 
tion? How  anticipate  its  comings  and  goings,  its  returns, 
its  stops,  its  shocks?  Any  one  of  its  blows  on  the  side  of  the 
ship  may  stave  it  in.  How  foretell  its  frightful  meanderings? 
It  is  dealing  with  a  projectile,  which  alters  its  mind,  which  seems 
to  have  ideas,  and  changes  its  direction  every  instant.     How 


420  VIS  ET  VIR 

check  the  course  of  what  must  be  avoided?  The  horrible  cannon 
struggles,  advances,  backs,  strikes  right,  strikes  left,  retreats, 
passes  by,  disconcerts  expectation,  grinds  up  obstacles,  crushes 
men  like  flies.  All  the  terror  of  the  situation  is  in  the  fluctu- 
ations of  the  flooring.  How  fight  an  inclined  plane  subject 
to  caprices?  The  ship  has,  so  to  speak,  in  its  belly,  an  imprisoned 
thunderstorm,  striving  to  escape;  something  like  a  thunderbolt 
rumbling  above  an  earthquake. 

In  an  instant  the  whole  crew  was  on  foot.  It  was  the  fault 
of  the  gun  captain,  who  had  neglected  to  fasten  the  screw-nut 
of  the  mooring-chain,  and  had  insecurely  clogged  the  four 
wheels  of  the  gun  carriage;  this  gave  play  to  the  sole  and  the 
framework,  separated  the  two  platforms,  and  finally  the  breech- 
ing. The  tackle  had  given  way,  so  that  the  cannon  was  no 
longer  firm  on  its  carriage.  The  stationary  breeching,  which 
prevents  recoil,  was  not  in  use  at  this  time.  A  heavy  sea  struck 
the  port,  the  carronade  insecurely  fastened,  had  recoiled  and 
broken  its  chain,  and  began  its  terrible  course  over  the  deck. 

To  form  an  idea  of  this  strange  sliding,  let  one  imagine  a  drop 
of  water  running  over  glass. 

At  the  moment  when  the  fastenings  gave  way,  the  gunners 
were  in  the  battery.  Some  in  groups,  others  scattered  about, 
busied  with  the  customary  work  among  sailors  getting  ready 
for  a  signal  for  action.  The  carronade,  hurled  forward  by  the 
pitching  of  the  vessel,  made  a  gap  in  this  crowd  of  men  and 
crushed  four  at  the  first  blow;  then  sliding  back,  and  shot 
out  again  as  the  ship  rolled,  it  cut  in  two  a  fifth  unfortunate, 
and  knocked  a  piece  of  the  battery  against  the  larboard  side 
with  such  force  as  to  unship  it.  This  caused  the  cry  of  dis- 
tress just  heard.  All  the  men  rushed  to  the  companion-way. 
The  gun  deck  was  vacated  in  a  twinkling. 

The  enormous  gun  was  left  alone.  It  was  given  up  to  itself. 
It  was  its  own  master,  and  master  of  the  ship.  It  could  do 
what   it  pleased.     The  whole  crew,  accustomed  to  laugh  in 


VICTOR  HUGO  421 

time  of  battle,  now  trembled.  To  describe  the  terror  is 
impossible. 

Captain  Boisberthelot  and  Lieuteant  la  Vieuville,  although 
both  dauntless  men,  stopped  at  the  head  of  the  companion- 
way,  and  dumb,  pale,  and  hesitating,  looked  down  on  the  deck 
below.     Some  one  elbowed  past  and  went  down. 

It  was  their  passenger,  the  peasant,  the  man  of  whom  they 
had  been  speaking  a  moment  before. 

Reaching  the  foot  of  the  companion-way,  he  stopped. 

II 

The  cannon  was  rushing  back  and  forth  on  the  deck.  One 
might  have  supposed  it  to  be  the  living  chariot  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse. The  marine  lantern  swinging  overhead  added  a  dizzy 
shifting  of  light  and  shade  to  the  picture.  The  form  of  the 
cannon  disappeared  in  the  violence  of  its  course,  and  it  looked 
now  black  in  the  light,  now  mysteriously  white  in  the  darkness. 

It  went  on  in  its  destructive  work.  It  had  already  shat- 
tered four  other  guns  and  made  two  gaps  in  the  side  of  the 
ship,  fortunately  above  the  water-line,  but  where  the  water 
would  come  in,  in  case  of  heavy  weather.  It  rushed  franti- 
cally against  the  framework;  the  strong  timbers  withstood 
the  shock;  the  curved  shape  of  the  wood  gave  them  great 
power  of  resistance;  but  they  creaked  beneath  the  blows  of 
this  huge  club,  beating  on  all  sides  at  once,  with  a  strange  sort 
of  ubiquity.  The  percussions  of  a  grain  of  shot  shaken  in  a 
bottle  are  not  swifter  or  more  senseless.  The  four  wheels 
passed  back  and  forth  over  the  dead  men,  cutting  them,  carv- 
ing them,  slashing  them,  till  the  five  corpses  were  a  score  of 
stumps  rolling  across  the  deck;  the  heads  of  the  dead  men 
seemed  to  cry  out;  streams  of  blood  curled  over  the  deck  with 
the  rolling  of  the  vessel;  the  planks,  damaged  in  several  places, 
began  to  gape  open.  The  whole  ship  was  filled  with  the  horrid 
noise  and  confusion. 


422  VIS  ET  VIR 

The  captain  promptly  recovered  his  presence  of  mind  and 
ordered  everything  that  could  check  and  impede  the  cannon's 
mad  course  to  be  thrown  through  the  hatchway  down  on  the 
gun  deck  —  mattresses,  hammocks,  spare  sails,  rolls  of  cordage, 
bags  belonging  to  the  crew,  and  bales  of  counterfeit  assignats, 
of  which  the  corvette  carried  a  large  quantity  —  a  character- 
istic piece  of  English  villainy  regarded  as  legitimate  warfare. 

But  what  could  these  rags  do?  As  nobody  dared  to  go 
below  to  dispose  of  them  properly,  they  were  reduced  to  lint 
in  a  few  minutes. 

There  was  just  sea  enough  to  make  the  accident  as  bad  as 
possible.  A  tempest  would  have  been  desirable,  for  it  might 
have  upset  the  cannon,  and  with  four  wheels  once  in  the  air 
there  would  be  some  hope  of  getting  it  under  control.  Mean- 
while, the  havoc  increased. 

There  were  splits  and  fractures  in  the  masts,  which  are  set 
into  the  framework  of  the  keel  and  rise  above  the  decks  of 
ships  like  great,  round  pillars.  The  convulsive  blows  of  the 
cannon  had  cracked  the  mizzen-mast,  and  had  cut  into  the 
main-mast. 

The  battery  was  being  ruined.  Ten  pieces  out  of  thirty 
were  disabled;  the  breeches  in  the  side  of  the  vessel  were  in- 
creasing, and  the  corvette  was  beginning  to  leak. 

The  old  passenger,  having  gone  down  to  the  gun  deck,  stood 
like  a  man  of  stone  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  He  cast  a  stern 
glance  over  this  scene  of  devastation.  He  did  not  move.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  take  a  step  forward.  Every  movement 
of  the  loose  carronade  threatened  the  ship's  destruction.  A 
few  moments  more  and  shipwreck  would  be  inevitable. 

They  must  perish  or  put  a  speedy  end  to  the  disaster;  some 
course  must  be  decided  on;  but  what?  What  an  opponent 
was  this  carronade!  Something  must  be  done  to  stop  this 
terrible  madness  —  to  capture  this  lightning  —  to  overthrow 
this  thunderbolt. 


VICTOR  HUGO  423 

Boisberthelot  said  to  la  Vieuville: 

"Do  you  believe  in  God,  chevalier?" 

La  Vieuville  replied:    "Yes  —  no.     Sometimes." 

"During  a  tempest?" 

"Yes,  and  in  moments  like  this." 

"God  alone  can  save  us  from  this,"  said  Boisberthelot. 

Everybody  was  silent,  letting  the  carronade  continue  its 
horrible  din. 

Outside,  the  waves  beating  against  the  ship  responded  with 
their  blows  to  the  shocks  of  the  cannon.  It  was  like  two  ham- 
mers alternating. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  this  inaccessible  ring,  where  the 
escaped  cannon  was  leaping,  a  man  was  seen  to  appear,  with 
an  iron  bar  in  his  hand.  He  was  the  author  of  the  catastrophe, 
the  captain  of  the  gun,  guilty  of  criminal  carelessness,  and  the 
cause  of  the  accident,  the  master  of  the  carronade.  Having 
done  the  mischief,  he  was  anxious  to  repair  it.  He  had  seized 
the  iron  bar  in  one  hand,  a  tiller-rope  with  a  slip  noose  in  the 
other,  and  jumped  down  the  hatchway  to  the  gun  deck. 

Then  began  an  awful  sight;  a  Titanic  scene;  the  contest 
between  gun  and  gunner;  the  battle  of  matter  and  intelligence, 
the  duel  between  man  and  the  inanimate. 

The  man  stationed  himself  in  a  corner,  and  with  bar  and 
rope  in  his  two  hands,  he  leaned  against  one  of  the  riders, 
braced  himself  on  his  legs,  which  seemed  two  steel  posts,  and 
livid,  calm,  tragic,  as  if  rooted  to  the  deck,  he  waited. 

He  waited  for  the  cannon  to  pass  by  him. 

The  gunner  knew  his  gun,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the 
gun  ought  to  know  him.  He  had  lived  long  with  it.  How 
many  times  he  had  thrust  his  hand  into  its  mouth!  It  was 
his  own  familiar  monster.  He  began  to  speak  to  it  as  if  it  were 
his  dog. 

"Come!"  he  said.     Perhaps  he  loved  it. 

He  seemed  to  wish  it  to  come  to  him. 


424  VIS   ET  VIR 

But  to  come  to  him  was  to  come  upon  him.  And  then  he 
would  be  lost.  How  could  he  avoid  being  crushed?  That 
was  the  question.    All  looked  on  in  terror. 

Not  a  breast  breathed  freely,  unless  perhaps  that  of  the  old 
man,  who  was  alone  in  the  battery  with  the  two  contestants,  a 
stern  witness. 

He  might  be  crushed  himself  by  the  cannon.     He  did  not  stir. 

Beneath  them  the  sea  blindly  directed  the  contest. 

At  the  moment  when  the  gunner,  accepting  this  frightful 
hand-to-hand  conflict,  challenged  the  cannon,  some  chance 
rocking  of  the  sea  caused  the  carronade  to  remain  for  an  instant 
motionless  and  as  if  stupefied. 

"Come,  now!"  said  the  man.     It  seemed  to  listen. 

Suddenly  it  leaped  towards  him.     The  man  dodged  the  blow. 

The  battle  began.  Battle  unprecedented.  Frailty  strug- 
gling against  the  invulnerable.  The  gladiator  of  flesh  attack- 
ing the  beast  of  brass.  On  one  side,  brute  force;  on  the  other, 
a  human  soul. 

All  this  was  taking  place  in  semi-darkness.  It  was  like  the 
shadowy  vision  of  a  miracle. 

A  soul  —  strange  to  say,  one  would  have  thought  the  can- 
non also  had  a  soul;  but  a  soul  full  of  hatred  and  rage.  This 
sightless  thing  seemed  to  have  eyes.  The  monster  appeared  to 
lie  in  wait  for  the  man.  One  would  have  at  least  believed  that 
there  was  craft  in  this  mass.  It  also  chose  its  time.  It  was 
a  strange,  gigantic  insect  of  metal,  having  or  seeming  to  have 
the  will  of  a  demon.  For  a  moment  this  colossal  locust  would 
beat  against  the  low  ceiling  overhead,  then  it  would  come 
down  on  its  four  wheels  like  a  tiger  on  its  four  paws,  and  begin 
to  run  at  the  man.  He,  supple,  nimble,  expert,  writhed  away 
like  an  adder  from  all  these  lightning  movements.  He  avoided 
a  collision,  but  the  blows  which  he  parried  fell  against  the 
vessel,  and  continued  their  work  of  destruction. 

An  end  of  broken  chain  was  left  hanging  to  the  carronade.- 


VICTOR  HUGO  425 

This  chain  had  in  some  strange  way  become  twisted  about  the 
screw  of  the  cascabel.  One  end  of  the  chain  was  fastened  to 
the  gun-carriage.  The  other,  left  loose,  whirled  desperately 
about  the  cannon,  making  all  its  blows  more  dangerous. 

The  screw  held  it  in  a  firm  grip,  adding  a  thong  to  a  battering- 
ram,  making  a  terrible  whirlwind  around  the  cannon,  an  iron 
lash  in  a  brazen  hand.     This  chain  complicated  the  contest. 

However,  the  man  went  on  fighting.  Occasionally,  it  was 
the  man  who  attacked  the  cannon;  he  would  creep  along  the 
side  of  the  vessel,  bar  and  rope  in  hand;  and  the  cannon,  as 
if  it  understood,  and  as  though  suspecting  some  snare,  would 
flee  away.     The  man,  bent  on  victory,  pursued  it. 

Such  things  cannot  long  continue.  The  cannon  seemed  to 
say  to  itself,  all  of  a  sudden,  "Come,  now!  Make  an  end  of 
it!"  and  it  stopped.  One  felt  that  the  crisis  was  at  hand. 
The  cannon,  as  if  in  suspense,  seemed  to  have,  or  really  had  — 
for  to  all  it  was  a  living  being  —  a  ferocious  malice  prepense. 
It  made  a  sudden,  quick  dash  at  the  gunner.  The  gunner 
sprang  out  of  the  way,  let  it  pass  by,  and  cried  out  to  it  with 
a  laugh,  "Try  it  again!"  The  cannon,  as  if  enraged,  smashed 
a  carronade  on  the  port  side;  then,  again  seized  by  the  invisi- 
ble sling  which  controlled  it,  it  was  hurled  to  the  starboard 
side  at  the  man,  who  made  his  escape.  Three  carronades  gave 
way  under  the  blows  of  the  cannon;  then,  as  if  blind  and  not 
knowing  what  more  to  do,  it  turned  its  back  on  the  man,  rolled 
from  stern  to  bow,  injured  the  stern  and  made  a  breach  in  the 
planking  of  the  prow.  The  man  took  refuge  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  not  far  from  the  old  man  who  was  looking  on.  The 
gunner  held  his  iron  bar  in  rest.  The  cannon  seemed  to  notice 
it,  and  without  taking  the  trouble  to  turn  around,  slid  back  on 
the  man,  swift  as  the  blow  of  an  axe.  The  man,  driven  against 
the  side  of  the  ship,  was  lost.  The  whole  crew  cried  out  with 
horror. 

But  the  old  passenger,  till  this  moment  motionless,  darted 


426  VIS   ET  VIR 

forth  more  quickly  than  any  of  this  wildly  swift  rapidity. 
He  seized  a  package  of  counterfeit  assignats,  and,  at  the  risk 
of  being  crushed,  succeeded  in  throwing  it  between  the  wheels 
of  the  carronade.  This  decisive  and  perilous  movement  could 
not  have  been  made  with  more  exactness  and  precision  by  a 
man  trained  in  all  the  exercises  described  in  Durosel's  "Man- 
ual of  Gun  Practice  at  Sea." 

The  package  had  the  effect  of  a  clog.  A  pebble  may  stop 
a  log,  the  branch  of  a  tree  turn  aside  an  avalanche.  The  car- 
ronade stumbled.  The  gunner,  taking  advantage  of  this  critical 
opportunity,  plunged  his  iron  bar  between  the  spokes  of  one  of 
the  hind  wheels.  The  cannon  stopped.  It  leaned  forward. 
The  man,  using  the  bar  as  a  lever,  held  it  in  equilibrium.  The 
heavy  mass  was  overthrown,  with  the  crash  of  a  falling  bell, 
and  the  man,  rushing  with  all  his  might,  dripping  with  per- 
spiration, passed  the  slipnoose  around  the  bronze  neck  of  the 
subdued  monster. 

It  was  ended.  The  man  had  conquered.  The  ant  had 
control  over  the  mastodon;  the  pigmy  had  taken  the  thunder- 
bolt prisoner. 

The  mariners  and  sailors  clapped  their  hands. 

The  whole  crew  rushed  forward  with  cables  and  chains,  and 
in  an  instant  the  cannon  was  secured. 

The  gunner  saluted  the  passenger. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "you  have  saved  my  life." 

The  old  man  had  resumed  his  impassive  attitude,  and  made 
no  reply.  m 

The  man  had  conquered,  but  the  cannon  might  be  said  to 
have  conquered  as  well.  Immediate  shipwreck  had  been 
avoided,  but  the  corvette  was  not  saved.  The  damage  to  the 
vessel  seemed  beyond  repair.  There  were  five  breaches  in  her 
sides,  one,  very  large,  in  the  bow;  twenty  of  the  thirty  car- 
ronades  lay  useless  in  their  frames.    The  one  which  had  just 


VICTOR  HUGO  427 

been  captured  and  chained  again  was  disabled;  the  screw  of 
the  cascabel  was  sprung,  and  consequently  levelling  the  gun 
made  impossible.  The  battery  was  reduced  to  nine  pieces. 
The  ship  was  leaking.  It  was  necessary  to  repair  the  damages 
at  once,  and  to  work  the  pumps. 

The  gun  deck,  now  that  one  could  look  over  it,  was  frightful 
to  behold.  The  inside  of  an  infuriated  elephant's  cage  would 
not  be  more  completely  demolished. 

However  great  might  be  the  necessity  of  escaping  observation, 
the  necessity  of  immediate  safety  was  still  more  imperative  to 
the  corvette.  They  had  been  obliged  to  light  up  the  deck 
with  lanterns  hung  here  and  there  on  the  sides. 

However,  all  the  while  this  tragic  play  was  going  on,  the 
crew  were  absorbed  by  a  question  of  life  and  death,  and  they 
were  wholly  ignorant  of  what  was  taking  place  outside  the 
vessel.  The  fog  had  grown  thicker;  the  weather  had  changed; 
the  wind  had  worked  its  pleasure  with  the  ship;  they  were 
out  of  their  course,  with  Jersey  and  Guernsey  close  at  hand, 
farther  to  the  south  than  they  ought  to  have  been,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  heavy  sea.  Great  billows  kissed  the  gaping  wounds 
of  the  vessel  —  kisses  full  of  danger.  The  rocking  of  the  sea 
threatened  destruction.  The  breeze  had  become  a  gale.  A 
squall,  a  tempest,  perhaps,  was  brewing.  It  was  impossible 
to  see  four  waves  ahead. 

While  the  crew  were  hastily  repairing  the  damages  to  the 
gun  deck,  stopping  the  leaks,  and  putting  in  place  the  guns 
which  had  been  uninjured  in  the  disaster,  the  old  passenger  had 
gone  on  deck  again. 

He  stood  with  his  back  against  the  main-mast. 

He  had  not  noticed  a  proceeding  which  had  taken  place  on 
the  vessel.  The  Chevalier  de  la  Vieuville  had  drawn  up  the 
marines  in  line  on  both  sides  of  the  main-mast,  and  at  the 
sound  of  the  boatswain's  whistle  the  sailors  formed  in  line, 
standing  on  the  yards. 


428  VIS  ET  VIR 

The  Count  de  Boisberthelot  approached  the  passenger. 

Behind  the  captain  walked  a  man,  haggard,  out  of  breath, 
his  dress  disordered,  but  still  with  a  look  of  satisfaction  on  his 
face. 

It  was  the  gunner  who  had  just  shown  himself  so  skillful 
in  subduing  monsters,  and  who  had  gained  the  mastery  over 
the  cannon. 

The  count  gave  the  military  salute  to  the  old  man  in  peasant's 
dress,  and  said  to  him: 

"General,  there  is  the  man." 

The  gunner  remained  standing,  with  downcast  eyes,  in 
military  attitude. 

The  Count  de  Boisberthelot  continued: 

"General,  in  consideration  of  what  this  man  has  done,  do 
you  not  think  there  is  something  due  him  from  his  commander?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Please  give  your  orders,"  replied  Boisberthelot. 

"It  is  for  you  to  give  them,  you  are  the  captain." 

"But  you  are  the  general,"  replied  Boisberthelot. 

The  old  man  looked  at  the  gunner. 

"Come  forward,"  he  said. 

The  gunner  approached. 

The  old  man  turned  towards  the  Count  de  Boisberthelot, 
took  off  the  cross  of  Saint-Louis  from  the  captain's  coat  and 
fastened  it  on  the  gunner's  jacket. 

"Hurrah!"  cried  the  sailors. 

The  marines  presented  arms. 

And  the  old  passenger  pointing  to  the  dazzled  gunner,  added : 

"Now,  have  this  man  shot." 

Dismay  succeeded  the  cheering. 

Then  in  the  midst  of  the  death-like  stillness,  the  old  man 
raised  his  voice  and  said: 

"Carelessness  has  compromised  this  vessel.  At  this  very 
hour,  it  is  perhaps  lost.     To  be  at  sea  is  to  be  in  front  of  the 


VICTOR  HUGO  429 

enemy.  A  ship  making  a  voyage  is  an  army  waging  war.  The 
tempest  is  concealed,  but  it  is  at  hand.  The  whole  sea  is 
an  ambuscade.  Death  is  the  penalty  of  any  misdemeanor 
committed  in  the  face  of  the  enemy.  No  fault  is  reparable. 
Courage  should  be  rewarded,  and  negligence  punished." 

These  words  fell  one  after  another,  slowly,  solemnly,  in  a 
sort  of  inexorable  metre,  like  the  blows  of  an  axe  upon  an  oak. 

And  the  man,  looking  at  the  soldiers,  added: 

"Let  it  be  done." 

The  man  on  whose  jacket  hung  the  shining  cross  of  Saint- 
Louis,  bowed  his  head. 

At  a  signal  from  Count  de  Boisberthelot,  two  sailors  went 
below  and  came  back  bringing  the  hammock-shroud;  the 
chaplain,  who  since  they  sailed  had  been  at  prayer  in  the  officers' 
quarters,  accompanied  the  two  sailors;  a  sergeant  detached 
twelve  marines  from  the  line  and  arranged  them  in  two  files, 
six  by  six;  the  gunner,  without  uttering  a  word,  placed  himself 
between  the  two  files.  The  chaplain,  crucifix  in  hand,  advanced 
and  stood  beside  him.  "March,"  said  the  sergeant,  —  the 
platoon  marched  with  slow  steps  to  the  bow  of  the  vessel. 
The  two  sailors,  carrying  the  shroud,  followed.  A  gloomy 
silence  fell  over  the  vessel.     A  hurricane  howled  in  the  distance. 

A  few  moments  later,  a  light  flashed,  a  report  sounded  through 
the  darkness,  then  all  was  still,  and  the  sound  of  a  body  falling 
into  the  sea  was  heard. 

The  old  passenger,  still  leaning  against  the  mainmast,  had 
crossed  his  arms,  and  was  buried  in  thought. 

Boisberthelot  pointed  to  him  with  the  forefinger  of  his  left 
hand,  and  said  to  la  Vieuville  in  a  low  voice: 

"La  Vendee  has  a  head." 


XXXI.  A  DEAD  ISSUE1 

Charles  Macomb  Flandreau 

[Mr.  Flandreau,  all  of  whose  writings  are  full  of  a  detailed  and  amusing  observa- 
tion, is  one  of  the  very  few  authors  who  have  been  able  to  put  the  endlessly  recur- 
rent scenes  and  ideas  of  undergraduate  life  into  durable  form.  This  story  and 
Wellington,  in  Part  II,  were  written  while  he  was  still  close  to  undergraduate  affairs 
and  were  published  within  two  years  after  he  left  college.  The  problem  which  A 
Dead  Issue  presents  is  a  singular  one,  but  it  is  so  embedded  in  the  common  routine 
of  college  life  that  it  has  a  wide  significance.  It  is  discussed  in  the  introduction  to 
Part  V,  pages  307-308.] 

Marcus  Thorn,  instructor  in  Harvard  University,  was  thirty- 
two  years  old  on  the  twentieth  of  June.  He  looked  thirty-five, 
and  felt  about  a  hundred.  When  he  got  out  of  bed  on  his 
birthday  morning,  and  pattered  into  the  vestibule  for  his  mail, 
the  date  at  the  top  of  the  Crimson  recalled  the  first  of  these 
unpleasant  truths  to  him.  His  mirror  —  it  was  one  of  those 
detestable  folding  mirrors  in  three  sections  —  enabled  him  to 
examine  his  bald  spot  with  pitiless  ease,  reproduced  his  profile 
some  forty-five  times  in  quick  succession,  and  made  it  possible 
for  him  to  see  all  the  way  round  himself  several  times  at  once. 
It  was  this  devilish  invention  that  revealed  fact  number  two 
to  Mr.  Thorn,  while  he  was  brushing  his  hair  and  tying  his 
necktie.  One  plus  two  equalled  three,  as  usual,  and  Thorn 
felt  old  and  unhappy.  But  he  didn't  linger  over  his  dressing 
to  philosophise  on  the  evanescence  of  youth;  he  didn't  even 
murmur,  — 

"Alas  for  hourly  change!      Alas  for  all 
The  loves  that  from  his  hand  proud  youth  lets  fall, 
Even  as  the  beads  of  a  told  rosary." 

He  could  do  that  sort  of  thing  very  well;  he  had  been  doing  it 
steadily  for  five  months.     But  this  morning,  the  reality  of  the 

1  Reprinted  from  Harvard  Episodes  with  the  kind  permission  of  Small,  Maynard 
and  Company,  and  of  the  author. 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  431 

situation  —  impressed  upon  him  by  the  date  of  his  birth  —  led 
him  to  adopt  more  practical  measures.  What  he  actually 
did,  was  to  disarrange  his  hair  a  little  on  top,  —  fluff  it  up  to 
make  it  look  more,  —  and  press  it  down  toward  his  temples  to 
remove  the  appearance  of  having  too  much  complexion  for  the 
size  of  his  head.     Then  he  went  out  to  breakfast. 

Thorn's  birthday  had  fallen,  ironically,  on  one  of  those  rain- 
washed,  blue-and-gold  days  when  "all  nature  rejoices."  The 
whitest  of  clouds  were  drifting  across  the  bluest  of  skies  when 
the  instructor  walked  out  into  the  Yard;  the  elms  rustled  gently 
in  the  delicate  June  haze,  and  the  robins  hopped  across  the  yel- 
low paths,  freshly  sanded,  and  screamed  in  the  sparkling  grass. 
All  nature  rejoiced,  and  in  so  doing  got  very  much  on  Thorn's 
nerves.  When  he  reached  his  club,  he  was  a  most  excellent 
person  not  to  breakfast  with. 

It  was  early  —  half-past  eight  —  and  no  one  except  Prescott, 
a  sophomore,  and  Wynne,  a  junior,  had  dropped  in  as  yet. 
Wynne,  with  his  spectacles  on,  was  sitting  in  the  chair  he  always 
sat  in  at  that  hour,  reading  the  morning  paper.  Thorn  knew 
that  he  would  read  it  through  from  beginning  to  end,  carefully 
put  his  spectacles  back  in  their  case,  and  then  go  to  the  piano 
and  play  the  "Blue  Danube."  By  that  time  his  eggs  and 
coffee  would  be  served.  Wynne  did  this  every  morning,  and  the 
instructor,  who  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  had  regarded  the 
boy's  methodical  habits  at  the  club  as  "quaint,"  —  sugges- 
tive, somehow,  of  the  first  chapter  of  "Pendennis,"  —  felt 
this  morning  that  the  "  Blue  Danube "  before  breakfast 
would  be  in  the  nature  of  a  last  straw.  Prescott,  look- 
ing as  fresh  and  clean  as  the  morning,  was  laughing  over 
an  illustrated  funny  paper.  He  merely  nodded  to  Thorn, 
although  the  instructor  hadn't  breakfasted  there  for  many 
months,  and  called  him  across  to  enjoy  something.  Thorn 
glanced  at  the  paper  and  smiled  feebly. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  it  at  this  hour,"  he  said;    "I 


432  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

would  as  soon  drink  flat  champagne."  Prescott  understood 
but  vaguely  what  the  man  was  talking  about,  yet  he  didn't 
appear  disturbed  or  anxious  for  enlightenment. 

"I'll  have  my  breakfast  on  the  piazza,"  Thorn  said  to  the 
steward  who  answered  his  ring.  Then  he  walked  nervously 
out  of  the  room. 

From  the  piazza  he  could  look  over  a  tangled  barrier  of  lilac 
bushes  and  trellised  grapevines  into  an  old-fashioned  garden. 
A  slim  lady  in  a  white  dress  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  that 
hid  her  face  was  cutting  nasturtiums  and  humming  placidly  to 
herself.  Thorn  thought  she  was  a  young  girl,  until  she  turned 
and  revealed  the  fact  that  she  was  not  a  young  girl  —  that  she 
was  about  his  own  age.  This  seemed  to  annoy  him  in  much  the 
same  way  that  the  robins  and  Wynne  and  the  funny  paper  had, 
for  he  threw  himself  into  a  low  steamer-chair  where  he  wouldn  't 
have  to  look  at  the  woman,  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  sort  of 
luxurious  melancholy. 

In  October,  nine  months  before,  Thorn  had  appeared  one 
evening  in  the  doorway  of  the  club  dining-room  after  a  more  or 
less  continuous  absence  of  eight  years  from  Cambridge.  It  was 
the  night  before  college  opened,  and  the  dining-room  was 
crowded.  For  an  instant  there  was  an  uproar  of  confused 
greetings;  then  Haydock  and  Ellis  and  Sears  Wolcott  and 
Wynne  —  the  only  ones  Thorn  knew  —  pushed  back  from  the 
table  and  went  forward  to  shake  hands  with  him.  Of  the  nine 
or  ten  boys  still  left  at  the-  table  by  this  proceeding,  those  whose 
backs  were  turned  to  the  new  arrival  stopped  eating  and  waited 
without  looking  around,  to  be  introduced  to  the  owner  of  the 
unfamiliar  voice.  Their  companions  opposite  paused  too, 
some  of  them  laid  their  napkins  on  the  table.  They,  however, 
could  glance  up  and  see  that  the  newcomer  was  a  dark  man  of 
thirty  years  or  more.  They  supposed,  correctly,  that  he  was 
an  "old  graduate"  and  a  member  of  the  club. 

"You  don't  know  any  of  these  people,  do  you?"  said  Haydock, 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  433 

taking  him  by  the  arm;  "what  a  devil  of  a  time  you've  been 
away  from  this  place." 

"I  know  that  that's  a  Prescott,"  laughed  the  graduate. 
In  his  quick  survey  of  the  table,  while  the  others  had  been  wel- 
coming him  back,  his  eyes  had  rested  a  moment  on  a  big  fellow 
with  light  hair.  Everybody  laughed,  because  it  really  was 
a  Prescott  and  all  Prescotts  were  simply  more  or  less  happy 
replica  of  all  other  Prescotts.  "I  know  your  brothers,"  said 
the  graduate,  shaking  hands  with  the  boy,  who  had  risen. 

"It's  Mr.  Thorn."  Haydock  made  this  announcement  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  the  crowd.  He  introduced  every  one, 
prefixing  "Mr."  to  the  names  of  the  first  few,  but  changing  to 
given  and  even  nicknames  before  completing  the  circuit  of  the 
table.  The  humor  of  some  of  these  last,  —  "Dink,"  "Piitk," 
and  "Mary,"  for  instance,  —  lost  sight  of  in  long  established 
usage,  suggested  itself  anew;  and  the  fellows  laughed  again  as 
they  made  a  place  for  Thorn  at  the  crowded  table. 

"It's  six  years,  isn't  it?"  Haydock  asked  politely.  The 
others  had  begun  to  babble  cheerfully  again  of  their  own  affairs. 

"Six!  I  wish  it  were;  it's  eight,"  answered  Thorn.  "Eight 
since  I  left  college.  But  of  course  I  've  been  here  two  or  three 
times  since,  —  just  long  enough  to  make  me  unhappy  at  having 
to  go  back  to  Europe  again." 

"And  now  you're  a  great,  haughty  Ph.D.  person,  an  'Officer 
of  Instruction  and  Government,'  announced  in  the  prospectus 
to  teach  in  two  courses,"  mused  Ellis,  admiringly.  "How  do 
you  like  the  idea?" 

"It's  very  good  to  be  back,"  said  Thorn.  He  looked  about 
the  familiar  room  with  a  contented  smile,  while  the  steward 
bustled  in  and  out  to  supply  him  with  the  apparatus  of  dining. 

It  was,  indeed,  good  to  be  back.  The  satisfaction  deepened 
and  broadened  with  every  moment.  It  was  good  to  be  again 
in  the  town,  the  house,  the  room  that,  during  his  life  abroad,  he 
had  grown  to  look  upon  more  as  "home"  than  any  place  in 


434  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

the  world;  good  to  come  back  and  find  that  the  place  had 
changed  so  little;  good,  for  instance,  when  he  ordered  a  bottle 
of  beer,  to  have  it  brought  to  him  in  his  own  mug,  with  his  name 
and  class  cut  in  the  pewter,  —  just  as  if  he  had  never  been 
away  at  all.  This  was  but  one  of  innumerable  little  things  that 
made  Thorn  feel  that  at  last  he  was  where  he  belonged ;  that  he 
had  stepped  into  his  old  background;  that  it  still  fitted.  The 
fellows,  of  course,  were  recent  acquisitions  —  all  of  them. 
Even  his  four  acquaintances  had  entered  college  long  since  his 
own  time.  But  the  crowd,  except  that  it  seemed  to  him  a  gather- 
ing decidedly  younger  than  his  contemporaries  had  been  at  the 
same  age,  was  in  no  way  strange  to  him.  There  were  the  same 
general  types  of  young  men  up  and  down  the  table,  and  at  both 
ends,  that  he  had  known  in  his  day.  They  were  discussing  the 
same  topics,  in  the  same  tones  and  inflections,  that  had  made  the 
dinner-table  lively  in  the  eighties,  —  which  was  not  surprising 
when  he  considered  that  certain  families  belong  to  certain  clubs 
at  Harvard  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  that  some  of  the 
boys  at  the  table  were  the  brothers  and  cousins  of  his  own 
classmates.  He  realized  with  a  glow  of  sentiment,  that  he  had 
returned  to  his  own  people  after  years  of  absence  in  foreign 
lands;  a  performance  whose  emotional  value  was  not  decreased 
for  Thorn  by  the  conviction,  just  then,  that  his  own  people 
were  better  bred,  and  better  looking,  and  better  dressed  than 
any  he  had  met  elsewhere.  As  he  looked  about  at  his  civilized 
surroundings,  and  took  in,  from  the  general  chatter,  fragments 
of  talk,  —  breezy  and  cosmopolitan  with  incidents  of  the 
vacation  just  ended,  —  he  considered  his  gratification  worth 
the  time  he  had  been  spending  among  the  fuzzy  young  gentle- 
men of  a  German  university. 

Thorn,  like  many  another  college  antiquity,  might  have  been 
the  occasion  of  a  mutual  feeling  of  constraint  had  he  descended 
upon  this  undergraduate  meal  in  the  indefinite  capacity  of 
"an  old  graduate."     The  ease  with  which  he  filled  his  place  at 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  435 

the  table,  and  the  effortless  civility  that  acknowledged  his 
presence  there,  were  largely  due  to  his  never  having  allowed 
his  interest  in  the  life  of  the  club  to  wane  during  his  years  away 
from  it.  He  knew  the  sort  of  men  the  place  had  gone  in  for, 
and,  in  many  instances,  their  names  as  well.  Some  of  his  own 
classmates  —  glad,  no  doubt,  of  so  congenial  an  item  for  their 
occasional  European  letters  —  had  never  failed  to  write  him, 
in  diverting  detail,  of  the  great  Christmas  and  spring  dinners. 
And  they,  in  turn,  had  often  read  extracts  from  Thorn's  letters 
to  them,  when  called  on  to  speak  at  these  festivities.  More 
than  once  the  graduate  had  sent,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  some  doggerel  verses,  a  sketch  to  be  used  as  a  dinner- 
card,  or  a  trifling  addition  to  the  club's  library  or  dining-room. 
Haydock  and  Ellis  and  Wolcott  and  Wynne  he  had  met  at 
various  times  abroad.  He  had  made  a  point  of  hunting  them 
up  and  getting  to  know  them,  with  the  result  that  his  interest 
had  succeeded  in  preserving  his  identity;  he  was  not  unknown 
to  the  youngest  member  of  the  club.  If  they  didn't  actually 
know  him,  they  at  least  knew  of  him.  Even  this  crust  is  sweet 
to  the  returned  graduate  whose  age  is  just  far  enough  removed 
from  either  end  of  life's  measure  to  make  it  intrinsically  unim- 
portant. 

"What  courses  do  you  give?"  It  was  the  big  Prescott, 
sitting  opposite,  who  asked  this.  The  effort  involved  a  change 
of  color. 

"You'd  better  look  out,  or  you'll  have  Pink  in  your  class  the 
first  thing  you  know,"  some  one  called,  in  a  voice  of  warning, 
from  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"Yes;    he's  on  the  lookout  for  snaps,"  said  some  one  else. 

"Then  he'd  better  stay  away  from  my  lectures,"  answered 
Thorn,  smiling  across  at  Prescott,  who  blushed  some  more  at 
this  sudden  convergence  of  attention  on  himself.  "They 
say  that  new  instructors  always  mark  hard  —  just  to  show 
off." 


436  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

"I  had  you  on  my  list  before  I  knew  who  you  were,"  an- 
nounced another.  "I  thought  the  course  looked  interesting; 
you'll  have  to  let  me  through." 

"Swipe!  swipe!"  came  in  a  chorus  from  around  the  table. 
This  bantering  attitude  toward  his  official  position  pleased 
Thorn,  perhaps,  more  than  anything  else.  It  flattered  and 
reassured  him  as  to  the  impression  his  personality  made  on 
younger  —  much  younger  —  men.  He  almost  saw  in  himself 
the  solution  of  the  perennial  problem  of  "How  to  bring  about 
a  closer  sympathy  between  instructor  and  student." 

After  dinner  Hay  dock  and  Ellis  took  him  from  room  to  room, 
and  showed  him  the  new  table,  the  new  rugs,  the  new  books, 
ex  dono  this,  that,  and  the  other  member.  In  the  library  he 
came  across  one  of  his  own  sketches,  prettily  framed.  Some 
of  his  verses  had  been  carefully  pasted  into  the  club  scrap- 
book.  Ellis  and  Haydock  turned  to  his  class  photograph  in 
the  album,  and  laughed.  It  was  not  until  long  afterwards  that 
he  wondered  if  they  had  done  so  because  the  picture  had  not 
yet  begun  to  lose  its  hair.  When  they  had  seen  everything  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  attic,  they  went  back  to  the  big  room  where 
the  fellows  were  drinking  their  coffee  and  smoking.  Others 
had  come  in  in  the  interval;  they  were  condoling  gayly  with 
those  already  arrived,  on  the  hard  luck  of  having  to  be  in  Cam- 
bridge once  more.  Thorn  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace, 
and  observed  them. 

It  was  anything  but  a  representative  collection  of  college  men. 
There  were  athletes,  it  was  true,  —  Prescott  was  one,  —  and  men 
who  helped  edit  the  college  papers,  and  men  who  stood  high  in 
their  studies,  and  others  who  didn't  stand  anywhere,  talking 
and  chaffing  in  that  room.  But  it  was  characteristic  of  the 
life  of  the  college  that  these  varied  distinctions  had  in  no  way 
served  to  bring  the  fellows  together  there.  That  Ellis  would, 
without  doubt,  graduate  with  a  magna,  perhaps  a  sutnma  cum 
laude,  was  a  matter  of  interest  to  no  one  but  Ellis.    That 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  437 

Prescott  had  played  admirable  foot-ball  on  Soldiers'  Field  the 
year  before,  and  would  shortly  do  it  again,  made  Prescott 
indispensable  to  the  Eleven,  perhaps,  but  it  didn't  in  the  least 
enhance  his  value  to  the  club.  In  fact,  it  kept  him  away  so 
much,  and  sent  him  to  bed  so  early,  that  his  skill  at  the  game  was, 
at  times,  almost  deplored.  That  Haydock  once  in  a  while 
contributed  verses  of  more  than  ordinary  merit  to  the  Monthly 
and  Advocate  had  nearly  kept  him  out  of  the  club  altogether. 
It  was  the  one  thing  against  him,  —  he  had  to  live  it  down. 
On  the  whole,  the  club,  like  all  of  the  five  small  clubs  at  Har- 
vard whose  influence  is  the  most  powerful,  the  farthest  reaching 
influence  in  the  undergraduate  life  of  the  place,  rather  prided 
itself  in  not  being  a  reward  for  either  the  meritorious  or  the 
energetic.  It  was  composed  of  young  men  drawn  from  the 
same  station  in  life,  the  similarity  of  whose  past  associations 
and  experience,  in  addition  to  whatever  natural  attractions 
they  possessed,  rendered  them  mutually  agreeable.  The 
system  was  scarcely  broadening,  but  it  was  very  delightful. 
And  as  the  graduate  stood  there  watching  the  fellows  —  brown 
and  exuberant  after  the  long  vacation  —  come  and  go,  dis- 
cussing, comparing,  or  simply  fooling,  but  always  frankly 
absorbed  in  themselves  and  one  another,  he  could  not  help 
thinking  that  however  much  such  institutions  had  helped  to 
enfeeble  the  class  spirit  of  days  gone  by,  they  had  a  rather 
exquisite,  if  less  diffusive  spirit  of  their  own.  He  liked  the 
liveliness  of  the  place,  the  broad,  simple  terms  of  intimacy 
on  which  every  one  seemed  to  be  with  every  one  else,  the  freedom 
of  speech  and  action.  Not  that  he  had  any  desire  to  bombard 
people  with  sofa-cushions,  as  Sears  Wolcott  happened  to  be 
doing  at  that  instant,  or  even  to  lie  on  his  back  in  the  middle 
of  the  centre-table  with  his  head  under  the  lamp,  and  read  the 
Transcript,  as  some  one  else  had  done  most  of  the  evening; 
but  he  enjoyed  the  environment  that  made  such  things  possible 
and  unobjectionable. 


438  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

"I  must  make  a  point  of  coming  here  a  great  deal,"  reflected 
Thorn. 

The  next  day  college  opened.  More  men  enrolled  in  Thorn's 
class  that  afternoon  than  he  thought  would  be  attracted  by  the 
subject  he  was  announced  to  lecture  in  on  that  day  of  the  week. 
Among  all  the  students  who  straggled,  during  the  hour,  into 
the  bare  recitation-room  at  the  top  of  Sever,  the  only  ones  whose 
individualities  were  distinct  enough  to  impress  themselves 
on  Thorn's  unpracticed  memory  were  a  negro,  a  stained  ivory 
statuette  of  a  creature  from  Japan,  a  middle-aged  gentleman 
with  a  misplaced  trust  in  the  efficacy  of  a  flowing  sandy  beard 
for  concealing  an  absence  of  collar  and  necktie,  Prescott,  and 
Haydock.  Prescott  surprised  him.  There  was  a  crowd  around 
the  desk  when  he  appeared,  and  Thorn  didn't  get  a  chance  to 
speak  to  him;  but  he  was  pleased  to  have  the  boy  enrol  in  his 
course,  —  more  pleased  somehow  than  if  there  had  been  any 
known  intellectual  reason  for  his  having  done  such  a  thing; 
more  pleased,  for  instance,  than  he  was  when  Haydock  strolled 
in  a  moment  or  two  later,  although  he  knew  that  the  senior 
would  get  from  his  teachings  whatever  there  was  in  them. 
Haydock  was  the  last  to  arrive  before  the  hour  ended.  Thorn 
gathered  up  his  pack  of  enrolment  cards,  and  the  two  left  the 
noisy  building  together. 

"Prescott  enrolled  just  a  minute  or  two  before  you  did," 
said  Thorn,  as  they  walked  across  the  Yard.  He  was  a  vain 
man  in  a  quiet  way. 

"Yes,"  answered  Haydock  drily,  "he  said  your  course  came 
at  a  convenient  hour,"  he  didn't  add  that,  from  what  he  knew 
of  Prescott,  complications  might,  under  the  circumstances, 
be  looked  for. 

"Shall  I  see  you  at  dinner?"  Thorn  asked  before  they  sepa- 
rated. 

"Oh,  are  you  going  to  eat  at  the  club?"  Haydock  had 
wondered  the  night  before  how  much  the  man  would  frequent 
the  place. 


CHARLES  MACOMB  FLANDREAU  439 

"Why,  yes,  I  thought  I  would  —  for  a  time  at  least."  No 
other  arrangement  had  ever  occurred  to  Thorn. 

"That's  good  —  I'm  glad,"  said  the  senior;  he  asked  himself, 
as  he  walked  away,  why  truthful  people  managed  to  lie  so  easily 
and  so  often  in  the  course  of  a  day.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
vaguely  sorry  for  what  Thorn  had  just  told  him.  Haydock 
didn't  object  to  the  instructor.  Had  his  opinion  been  asked, 
he  would  have  said,  with  truth,  that  he  liked  the  man.  For 
Thorn  was  intelligent,  and  what  Haydock  called  "  house  broken," 
and  the  two  had  once  spent  a  pleasant  week  together  in  Germany. 
It  was  not  inhospitality,  but  a  disturbed  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things  that  made  Haydock  regret  Thorn's  apparent  intention 
of  becoming  so  intimate  with  his  juniors.  The  instructor's 
place,  Haydock  told  himself,  was  with  his  academic  colleagues, 
at  the  Colonial  Club  —  or  wherever  it  was  that  they  ate. 

Thorn  did  dine  with  the  undergraduates  that  night,  and  on 
many  nights  following.  It  was  a  privilege  he  enjoyed  for  a  time 
exceedingly.  It  amused  him,  and,  after  the  first  few  weeks  of 
his  new  life  in  Cambridge,  he  craved  amusement.  For  in  spite 
of  the  work  he  did  for  the  college  —  the  preparing  and  delivering 
of  lectures,  the  reading  and  marking  of  various  written  tasks, 
and  the  enlightening,  during  consultation  hours,  of  long  haired, 
long  winded  seekers  after  truth,  whose  cold,  insistent  passion 
for  the  literal  almost  crazed  him  —  he  was  often  profoundly 
bored.  He  had  not  been  away  from  Cambridge  long  enough 
to  outlive  the  conviction,  acquired  in  his  Freshman  year,  that 
the  residents  of  that  suburb  would  prove  unexhilarating  if  in  a 
moment  of  inadvertence  he  should  ever  chance  to  meet  any  of 
them.  But  he  had  been  too  long  an  exile  to  retain  a  very  satis- 
factory grasp  on  contemporary  Boston.  Of  course  he  hunted 
up  some  of  his  classmates  he  had  known  well.  Most  of  them 
were  men  of  affairs  in  a  way  that  was  as  yet  small  enough  to 
make  them  seem  to  Thorn  aggressively  full  of  purpose.  They 
were  all  glad  to  see  him.     Some  of  them  asked  him  to  luncheon 


44Q  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

in  town  at  hours  that  proved  inconvenient  to  one  living  in 
Cambridge;  some  of  them  had  wives,  and  asked  him  to  call 
on  them.  He  did  so,  and  found  them  to  be  nice  women.  But 
this  he  had  suspected  before.  Two  of  his  classmates  were  rich 
beyond  the  dreams  of  industry.  They  toiled  not,  and  might 
have  been  diverting  if  they  hadn  't  —  both  of  them  —  hap- 
pened to  be  unspeakably  dull  men.  For  one  reason  or  another, 
he  found  it  impossible  to  see  his  friends  often  enough  to  get  into 
any  but  a  very  lame  sort  of  step  with  their  lives.  Thorn's 
occasional  meetings  with  them  left  him  melancholy,  sceptical 
as  to  the  depth  of  their  natures  and  his  own,  cynical  as  to  the 
worth  of  college  friendships  —  friendships  that  had  depended, 
for  their  warmth,  so  entirely  on  propinquity  —  on  the  occasion. 
His  most  absorbing  topics  of  conversation  with  the  men  he 
had  once  known  —  his  closest  ties  —  were  after  all  issues  very 
trivial  and  very  dead.  Dinner  with  a  classmate  he  grew  to 
look  on  as  either  suicide,  or  a  post  mortem. 

It  was  the  club  with  its  fifteen  or  twenty  undergraduate  mem- 
bers that  went  far  at  first  toward  satisfying  his  idle  moments. 
Dead  issues,  other  than  the  personal  traditions  that  added  color 
and  atmosphere  to  the  everyday  life  of  the  place,  were  given 
no  welcome  there.  The  thrill  of  the  fleeting  present  was  enough. 
The  life  Thorn  saw  there  was,  as  far  as  he  could  tell,  more  than 
complete  with  the  healthy  joy  of  eating  and  drinking,  of  going 
to  the  play,  of  getting  hot  and  dirty  and  tired  over  athletics, 
and  cool  and  clean  and  hungry  again  afterwards.  The  in- 
structor was  entranced  by  its  innocence  —  its  unconscious  con- 
tentment. It  was  so  unlike  his  own  life  of  recent  years,  he  told 
himself;  it  was  so  "physical."  He  liked  to  stop  at  the  club 
late  in  the  winter  afternoons,  after  a  brisk  walk  on  Brattle 
Street.  There  was  always  a  crowd  around  the  fire  at  that  hour, 
and  no  room  that  he  could  remember  had  ever  seemed  so  full 
of  warmth  and  sympathy  as  the  big  room  where  the  fellows  sat, 
at  five  o'clock  on  a  winter's  day,  with  the  curtains  drawn  and 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  441 

the  light  of  the  fire  flickering  up  the  dark  walls  and  across  the 
ceiling.  He  often  dropped  in  at  midnight,  or  even  later.  The 
place  was  rarely  quite  deserted.  Returned  "theatre  bees" 
came  there  to  scramble  eggs  and  drink  beer,  instead  of  tarrying 
with  the  mob  at  the  Victoria  or  the  Adams  House.  In  the  chill 
of  the  small  hours,  a  herdic  load  of  boys  from  some  dance  in 
town  would  often  stream  in  to  gossip  and  get  warm,  or  to 
give  the  driver  a  drink  after  the  long  cold  drive  across  the  bridge. 
And  Thorn,  who  had  not  been  disposed  to  gather  up  and  cling 
to  the  dropped  threads  of  his  old  interests,  who  was  not  wedded 
to  his  work,  who  was  not  sufficient  unto  himself,  enjoyed  it  all 
thoroughly,  unreservedly  —  for  a  time. 

For  a  time  only.  For  as  the  winter  wore  on,  the  inevitable 
happened  —  or  rather  the  expected  didn't  happen,  which  is 
pretty  much  the  same  thing  after  all.  Thorn,  observant, 
analytical,  and  —  where  he  himself  was  not  concerned  —  clever, 
grew  to  know  the  fellows  better  than  they  knew  themselves. 
Before  he  had  lived  among  them  three  months,  he  had  appre- 
ciated their  respective  temperaments,  he  had  taken  the  measure 
of  their  ambitions  and  limitations,  he  had  catalogued  their 
likes  and  dislikes,  he  had  pigeon-holed  their  weaknesses  and 
illuminated  their  virtues.  Day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
consciously  and  unconsciously,  he  had  observed  them  in  what 
was  probably  the  frankest,  simplest  intercourse  of  their  lives. 
And  he  knew  them.  ' 

But  they  didn  't  know  him.  Nor  did  it  ever  occur  to  them  that 
they  wanted  to  or  could.  They  were  not  seeking  the  maturer 
companionship  Thorn  had  to  give;  they  were  not  seeking 
much  of  anything.  They  took  life  as  they  found  it  near  at  hand, 
and  Thorn  was  far,  very  far  away.  For  them,  the  niche  he  occu- 
pied could  have  been  filled  by  any  gentleman  of  thirty-two 
with  a  kind  interest  in  them  and  an  affection  for  the  club.  To 
him,  they  were  anything  that  made  the  world,  as  he  knew  it 
just  then,  interesting  and  beautiful.    Youth,  energy,  cleanli- 


442  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

ness  were  the  trinity  Thorn  worshipped.  And  they  were  young, 
strong,  and  undefiled.  Yet,  after  the  first  pleasure  at  being 
back  had  left  him,  Thorn  was  not  a  happy  man,  although  he  had 
not  then  begun  to  tell  himself  so. 

The  seemingly  unimportant  question  presented  by  his  own 
name  began  to  worry  him  a  little  as  the  weeks  passed  into 
months.  First  names  and  the  absurd  sounds  men  had  answered 
to  from  babyhood  were  naturally  in  common  use  at  the  club. 
Thorn  dropped  into  the  way  of  them  easily,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Not  to  have  done  so  would,  in  time,  have  become  impossible. 
The  fellows  would  have  thought  it  strange  —  formal.  Yet  the 
name  of  "Marcus"  was  rarely  heard  there.  Haydock,  once  in 
a  while,  called  him  that,  after  due  premeditation.  Sears 
Wolcott  occasionally  used  it  by  way  of  a  joke  —  as  if  he  were 
taking  an  impertinent  liberty,  and  rather  enjoyed  doing  it. 
But  none  of  the  other  men  ever  did.  On  no  occasion  had  any 
one  said  "Marcus"  absentmindedly,  and  then  looked  em- 
barrassed, as  Thorn  had  hoped  might  happen.  It  hurt  him  a 
little  always  to  be  called  "Thorn";  to  be  appealed  to  in  the 
capacity  of  "Mr.  Thorn,"  as  he  sometimes  was  by  the  younger 
members,  positively  annoyed  him.  Prescott  was  the  most 
incorrigible  in  this  respect.  He  had  come  from  one  of  those 
fitting  schools  where  all  speech  between  master  and  pupil  is 
carried  on  to  a  monotonous  chant  of  "Yes,  sir,"  "No,  sir,"  and 
<T  think  so,  sir."  He  had  ideas,  or  rather  habits,  —  for  Pres- 
cott's  ideas  were  few,  —  of  deference  to  those  whose  mission  it 
was  to  assist  in  his  education  that  Thorn  found  almost  impossible 
to  displace.  For  a  long  time  until  the  graduate  laughed 
and  asked  him  not  to  —  he  prefixed  the  distasteful  "Mr."  to 
Thorn's  name.  Then,  for  as  long  again,  he  refrained  markedly 
from  calling  him  anything.  One  afternoon  he  came  into  the 
club  where  the  instructor  was  alone,  writing  a  letter,  and  after 
fussing  for  a  time  among  the  magazines  on  the  table,  he  man- 
aged to  say,  — 


CHARLES    MACOMB    FLANDREAU  443 

"Thorn,  do  you  know  whether  Sears  has  been  here  since 
luncheon?" 

Thorn  didn't  know  and  he  didn't  care,  but  had  Prescott 
handed  him  an  appointment  to  an  assistant  professor's  chair, 
instead  of  having  robbed  him  a  little  of  what  dignity  he  possessed, 
he  would  not  have  been  so  elated  by  half.  Prescott  continued 
to  call  him  "Thorn  "  after  that,  but  always  with  apparent  effort, 
—  as  if  aware  that  in  doing  it  he  was  not  living  quite  up  to  his 
principles.  This  trouble  with  his  name  might  have  served  Thorn 
as  an  indication  of  what  his  position  actually  was  in  the  tiny 
world  he  longed  so  much  to  be  part  of  once  more.  But  he  was 
not  a  clever  man  where  he  himself  was  concerned. 

Little  things  hurt  him  constantly  without  opening  his  eyes. 
For  instance,  it  rarely  occurred  to  the  fellows  that  the  instructor 
might  care  to  join  them  in  any  of  their  hastily  planned  expedi- 
tions to  town  after  dinner.  Not  that  he  was  ostracised;  he 
was  simply  overlooked.  When  he  did  go  to  the  theatre,  he 
bought  the  tickets  himself,  and  asked  Prescott  or  Sears,  or 
some  of  them,  to  go  with  him.  The  occasion  invariably  lacked 
charm  of  spontaneity.  When  he  invited  any  of  them  to  dine 
with  him  in  town,  as  he  often  did,  they  went,  if  they  hadn't 
anything  else  to  do,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  their  dinner.  But 
to  Thorn  these  feasts  were  a  series  of  disappointments.  He 
always  got  up  from  the  table  with  a  sense  of  having  failed 
in  something.  What?  He  didn't  know  —  he  couldn't  have 
told.  He  was  like  a  man  who  shoots  carefully  at  nothing, 
and  then  feels  badly  because  he  hits  it.  He  persisted  in  loitering 
along  sunny  lanes,  and  growing  melancholy  because  they  led 
nowhere.  It  was  Sears  Wolcott  who  took  even  the  zest  of 
anticipation  out  of  Thorn's  little  dinners  in  town,  by  saying  to 
the  graduate  one  evening,  — 

"What's  the  point  of  going  to  the  Victoria  for  dinner?  It's 
less  trouble,  and  a  damned  sight  livelier,  to  eat  out  here." 
Sears  had  what  Haydock  called,  "that  disagreeable  habit  of 


444  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

hitting  promiscuously  from  the  shoulder.''  The  reaction  on 
Thorn  of  all  this  was  at  last  a  dawning  suspicion  of  his  own 
unimportance.  By  the  time  the  midyear  examinations  came, 
he  felt  somehow  as  if  he  were  "losing  ground";  he  hadn't 
reached  the  point  yet  of  realizing  that  he  never  had  had  any. 
He  used  to  throw  down  his  work  in  a  fit  of  depression  and  con- 
sult his  three-sided  mirror  apprehensively. 

The  big  Prescott,  however,  became  the  real  problem,  around 
which  the  others  were  as  mere  corollaries.  It  was  he  who 
managed,  in  his  "artless  Japanese  way,"  as  the  fellows  used  to 
call  it,  to  crystallise  the  situation,  to  bring  it  to  a  pass  where 
Thorn's  rather  unmanly  sentimentality  found  itself  confronted 
by  something  more  definite  and  disturbing  than  merely  the 
vanishing  point  of  youth.  Prescott  accomplished  this  very 
simply,  by  doing  the  poorest  kind  of  work  —  no  work  at  all,  in 
fact  —  in  the  course  he  was  taking  from  Thorn.  Barely,  and 
by  the  grace  of  the  instructor,  had  he  scraped  through  the  first 
examination  in  November.  Since  then  he  had  rested  calmly, 
like  a  great  monolith,  on  his  laurels.  He  went  to  Thorn's  lec- 
tures only  after  intervals  of  absence  that  made  his  going  at  all 
a  farce.  He  ignored  the  written  work  of  the  course,  and  the 
reports  on  outside  reading,  with  magnificent  completeness. 
Altogether,  he  behaved  as  he  wouldn't  have  behaved  had  he 
ever  for  a  moment  considered  Thorn  in  any  light  other  than  that 
of  an  instructor,  an  officer  of  the  college,  a  creature  to  whom 
deference  —  servility,  almost  —  was  due  when  he  was  compelled 
to  talk  to  him,  but  to  whom  all  obligation  ended  there.  His 
attitude  was  not  an  unusual  one  among  college  "men"  who 
have  not  outgrown  the  school  idea,  but  the  attendant  circum- 
stances were.  For  Thorn's  concern  over  Prescott's  indifference 
to  the  course  was  aroused  by  a  strong  personal  attachment, 
one  in  which  an  ordinary  professorial  interest  had  nothing  to 
do.  He  smarted  at  his  failure  to  attract  the  boy  sufficiently 
to  draw  him  to  his  lectures;  yet  he  looked  with  a  sort  of  panic 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  445 

toward  the  approaching  day  when  he  should  be  obliged,  in  all 
conscience,  to  flunk  him  in  the  midyear  examination.  He 
admired  Prescott,  as  little,  intelligent  men  sometimes  do  admire 
big,  stupid  ones.  He  idealised  him,  and  even  went  the  length, 
one  afternoon  when  taking  a  walk  with  Haydock,  of  telling  the 
senior  that  under  Prescott's  restful,  Olympic  exterior  he  thought 
there  lurked  a  soul.  To  which  Haydock  had  answered  with 
asperity,  "Well,  I  hope  so,  I'm  sure,"  and  let  the  subject  drop. 
Later  in  the  walk,  Haydock  announced,  irrelevantly,  and  with 
a  good  deal  of  vigour,  that  if  he  ever  made  or  inherited  millions, 
he  would  establish  a  chair  in  the  university,  call  it  the 
"Haydock  Professorship  of  Common  Sense,"  and  respectfully 
suggest  to  the  President  and  Faculty  that  the  course  be  made 
compulsory. 

Thorn  would  have  spoken  to  the  soulful  Prescott,  —  told 
him  gently  that  he  didn't  seem  to  be  quite  in  sympathy  with 
the  work  of  the  course,  —  if  Prescott  had  condescended  to  go 
to  his  lectures  in  the  six  or  seven  weeks  between  the  end  of  the 
Christmas  recess  and  the  examination  period.  But  Prescott 
cut  Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday,  at  half-past  two  o'clock, 
with  a  regularity  that,  considered  as  regularity,  was  admirable. 
Toward  the  last,  he  did  drop  in  every  now  and  then,  sit  near  the 
door,  and  slip  out  again  before  the  hour  was  ended.  This 
was  just  after  he  had  been  summoned  by  the  Recorder  to  the 
Office  for  "cutting."  Thorn  never  got  a  chance  to  speak  to 
him.  He  might  have  approached  the  boy  at  the  club;  but 
the  instructor  shrank  from  taking  advantage  of  his  connection 
with  that  place  to  make  a  delicate  official  duty  possible.  He 
had  all  along  avoided  "shop"  there  so  elaborately,  —  had  made 
so  light  of  it  when  the  subject  had  come  up,  —  that  he  couldn't 
bring  himself  at  that  late  day  to  arise,  viper  like,  from  the  hearth- 
stone and  smite.  A  note  of  warning  would  have  had  to  be  light, 
facetious,  and  consequently  without  value,  in  order  not  to  prove 
a  very  false  and  uncalled-for  note  indeed.     The  ready  cooper- 


446  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

ation  of  the  Dean,  Thorn  refrained  from  calling  on;  he  was  far 
from  wishing  to  get  Prescott  into  difficulties. 

By  the  time  the  examination  day  arrived,  the  instructor  was 
in  a  state  of  turmoil  that  in  ordinary  circumstances  would  have 
been  excessive  and  absurd.  In  the  case  of  Thorn,  it  was  half 
pathetic,  half  contemptible.  He  knew  that  in  spite  of  Pres- 
cott's  soul  (a  superabundance  of  soul  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
a  positive  hindrance  in  passing  examinations),  the  boy  would 
do  wretchedly.  To  give  him  an  E  —  the  lowest  possible  mark, 
always  excepting,  of  course,  the  jocose  and  sarcastic  F  —  would 
be  to  bring  upon  himself  Prescott's  everlasting  anger  and 
"despision."  Of  this  Thorn  was  sure.  Furthermore,  the  mark 
would  not  tend  to  make  the  instructor  wildly  popular  at  the 
club;  for  although  everybody  was  willing  to  concede  that  Pres- 
cott was  not  a  person  of  brilliant  mental  attainments,  he  was 
very  much  beloved.  One  hears  a  good  deal  about  the  "rough 
justice  of  boys."  Thorn  knew  that  such  a  thing  existed,  and 
did  not  doubt  but  that,  in  theory,  he  would  be  upheld  by  the 
members  of  the  club  if  he  gave  Prescott  an  E,  and  brought  the 
heavy  hand  of  the  Office  down  on  him.  But  the  justice  of  boys, 
he  reflected,  was,  after  all,  rough;  it  would  acknowledge  his 
right  to  flunk  Prescott,  perhaps,  and,  without  doubt,  hate  him 
cordially  for  doing  it.  Thorn's  aversion  to  being  hated  was 
almost  morbid. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  let  the  boy  through,  —  gave  him,  say 
the  undeserved  and  highly  respectable  mark  of  C,  —  well,  that 
would  be  tampering  dishonestly  with  the  standards  of  the  college, 
gross  injustice  to  the  rest  of  the  students,  injurious  to  the  self- 
respect  of  the  instructor,  and  a  great  many  other  objectionable 
things,  too  numerous  to  mention.  Altogether,  Thorn  was  in 
a  "state  of  mind."  He  began  to  understand  something  of  the 
fine  line  that  separates  instructor  from  instructed,  on  whose 
other  side  neither  may  trespass. 

When  at  length  the  morning  of  the  examination  had  come  and 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  447 

gone,  and  Thorn  was  in  his  own  room  at  his  desk  with  the  neat 
bundle  of  blue-covered  books  before  him,  in  which  the  examina- 
tions are  written,  it  was  easy  enough  to  make  up  his  mind.  He 
knew  that  the  question  of  flunking  or  passing  Prescott  admitted 
of  no  arguments  whatever.  The  boy's  work  in  the  course 
failed  to  present  the  tiniest  loophole  in  the  way  of  "extenuating 
circumstances,"  and  Prescott  had  capped  the  climax  of  his 
past  record  that  morning  by  staying  in  the  examination-room 
just  an  hour  and  a  quarter  of  the  three  hours  he  was  supposed 
to  be  there.  That  alone  was  equivalent  to  failure  in  a  man  of 
Prescott's  denseness.  Not  to  give  Prescott  a  simple  and  un- 
adorned E  would  be  holding  the  pettiest  of  personal  interests 
higher  than  one's  duty  to  the  college.  There  was  no  other  way 
of  looking  at  it.  And  Thorn,  whose  mind  was  perfectly  clear 
on  this  point,  deliberately  extricated  Prescott's  book  from  the 
blue  pile  on  his  desk,  dropped  it  carelessly  —  without  opening 
it  —  into  the  glowing  coals  of  his  fireplace,  and  entered  the  boy's 
midyear  mark  in  the  records  as  C. 

No  lectures  are  given  in  the  college  during  the  midyears. 
Men  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  finish  their  examinations  early 
in  the  period  can  run  away  to  New  York,  to  the  country,  to  Old 
Point  Comfort,  to  almost  anywhere  that  isn't  Cambridge,  and 
recuperate.  Haydock  went  South.  Ellis  and  Wynne  tried  a 
walking  trip  in  the  Berkshire  Hills,  and,  after  two  days'  flound- 
ering in  the  mud,  waded  to  the  nearest  train  for  a  city.  Boston 
men  went  to  Boston  —  except  Sears  Wolcott  and  Prescott, 
who  disappeared  to  some  wild  and  inaccessible  New  England 
hamlet  to  snow-shoe  or  spear  fish  or  shoot  rabbits;  no  one  could 
with  authority  say  which,  as  the  two  had  veiled  their  prepa- 
rations in  mystery.  So  it  happened  that  Thorn  didn  't  see  Pres- 
cott for  more  than  a  week  after  he  had  marked  his  book.  In 
the  meantime  he  had  become  used  to  the  idea  of  having  done  it 
according  to  a  somewhat  unconventional  system  —  to  put  it 
charitably.     He  passed  much  of  the  time  in  which  the  fellows 


448  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

were  away,  alone;  for  the  few  who  went  to  the  club,  went  there 
with  note-books  under  their  arms  and  preoccupied  expressions 
in  their  eyes.  They  kept  a  sharp  look-out  for  unexpected 
manoeuvres  on  the  part  of  the  clock,  and  had  a  general  air  of 
having  to  be  in  some  place  else  very  soon.  Thorn,  thrown  on  his 
own  resources,  had  a  mild  experience  of  what  Cambridge  can  be 
without  a  crowd  to  play  with,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that, 
for  his  own  interest  and  pleasure  in  life,  he  had  done  wisely 
in  not  incurring  Prescott's  ill-will  and  startling  the  club  in  the 
new  role  of  hardhearted,  uncompromising  pedagogue.  The 
insignificant  part  he  played  in  the  lives  of  the  undergraduates 
was  far  from  satisfying;  but  it  was  the  sort  of  half  a  loaf  one 
doesn't  willingly  throw  away.  By  the  time  Prescott  came  back, 
Thorn  had  so  wholly  accepted  his  own  view  of  the  case  that  he 
was  totally  unprepared  for  the  way  in  which  the  boy  took  the 
news  of  his  mark.  He  met  Prescott  in  the  Yard  the  morning 
college  opened  again,  and  stopped  to  speak  to  him.  He  wouldn't 
have  referred  to  the  examination  —  it  was  enough  to  know  that 
the  little  crisis  had  passed  —  had  not  Prescott,  blushing  uneasily, 
and  looking  over  Thorn's  shoulder  at  something  across  the  Yard, 
said,  — 

"I  don't  suppose  you  were  very  much  surprised  at  the  way  I 
did  in  the  exam,  were  you?" 

"It  might  have  been  better,"  answered  Thorn,  seriously. 
"I  hope  you  will  do  better  the  second  half  year.  But  then, 
it  might  have  been  worse;   your  mark  was  C." 

Prescott  looked  at  him,  a  quizzical,  startled  look;  and  then 
realizing  that  Thorn  was  serious,  that  there  had  been  nothing 
of  the  sarcastic  in  his  tone  or  manner,  he  laughed  rudely  in  the 
instructor's  face. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  as  politely  as  he  could,  with  his 
eyes  still  full  of  wonder  and  laughter;  "I  had  no  idea  I  did 
so  well."  He  turned  abruptly  and  walked  away.  Thorn 
would  have  felt  offended,  if  he  hadn't  all  at  once  been  exceed- 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  449 

ingly  scared.  Prescott's  manner  was  extraordinary  for  one  who, 
as  a  rule,  took  everything  as  it  came,  calmly,  unquestioningly. 
His  face  and  his  laugh  had  expressed  anything  but  ordinary 
satisfaction  at  not  having  failed.  There  was  something  behind 
that  unwonted  astonishment,  something  more  than  mere  sur- 
prise at  having  received  what  was,  after  all,  a  mediocre  mark. 
Thorn  had  mixed  enough  with  human  kind  to  be  aware  that  no 
man  living  is  ever  very  much  surprised  in  his  heart  of  hearts  to 
have  his  humble  efforts  in  any  direction  given  grade  C.  Men 
like  Prescott,  who  know  but  little  of  the  subjects  they  are 
examined  in,  usually  try  to  compose  vague  answers  that  may, 
like  the  oracles,  be  interpreted  according  to  the  mood  of  him 
who  reads  them.  No  matter  how  general  or  how  few  Prescott's 
answers  had  been  —  Thorn  stopped  suddenly  in  the  middle  of 
the  path.  The  explanation  that  had  come  to  him  took  hold  of 
him,  and  like  a  tightened  rein  drew  him  up  short.  Prescott  had 
written  nothing.  The  pages  of  his  blue  book  had  left  the  exami- 
nation-room as  virgin  white  as  when  they  had  been  brought  in 
and  placed  on  the  desk  by  the  proctor.  There  was  no  other 
explanation  possible,  and  the  instructor  tingled  all  over  with 
the  horrid  sensation  of  being  an  unspeakable  fool.  He  turned 
quickly  to  go  to  University  Hall;  he  meant  to  have  Prescott's 
mark  changed  at  once.  But  Prescott,  at  that  moment,  was 
bounding  up  the  steps  of  University,  two  at  a  time.  He  was 
undoubtedly  on  his  way  to  the  Office  to  verify  what  Thorn 
had  just  told  him.  Thorn  walked  rapidly  to  his  entry  in 
Holworthy,  although  he  had  just  come  from  there.  Then, 
with  short,  nervous  steps,  he  turned  back  again,  left  the  Yard, 
and  hurried  in  aimless  haste  up  North  Avenue.  He  had  been 
an  ass,  —  a  bungling,  awful  ass,  — .he  told  himself  over  and 
over  again.  And  that  was  about  as  coherent  a  meditation  as 
Mr.  Thorn  was  able  to  indulge  in  for  some  time.  Once  the  idea 
of  pretending  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  did  suggest  itself  for 
a  moment;   but  that  struck  him  as  wild,  impossible.     It  would 


450  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

have  merely  resulted  in  forcing  the  Office  to  regard  him 
stupid  and  careless,  and,  should  embarrassing  questions  arise, 
he  no  longer  had  Prescott's  book  with  which  to  clear  himself. 
More  than  that,  it  would  give  Prescott  reason  to  believe  him  an 
underhand  trickster.  The  boy  now  knew  him  to  be  an  example 
of  brazen  partiality;  there  was  no  point  in  incurring  even  harsher 
criticism.  Thorn  tried  to  convince  himself,  as  he  hurried  along 
the  straight,  hideous  highway,  that  perhaps  he  was  wrong  — 
that  Prescott  hadn't  handed  in  a  perfectly  blank  book.  If 
only  he  could  have  been  sure  of  that,  he  would  have  risked  the 
bland  assertion  that  the  boy  had  stumbled  on  more  or  less  in- 
telligent answers  to  the  examination  questions,  without  perhaps 
knowing  it  himself.  This,  practically,  was  the  tone  he  had 
meant  to  adopt  all  along.  But  he  couldn't  be  sure,  and,  unfor- 
tunately, the  only  person  who  could  give  information  as  to  what 
was  or  wasn't  in  the  book,  was  Prescott.  But  Prescott  had 
given  information  of  the  most  direct  and  convincing  kind. 
That  astounded  look  and  impertinent  laugh  had  as  much  as 
said:  — 

"Well,  old  swipe,  what's  your  little  game?  What  do  you 
expect  to  get  by  giving  a  good  mark  to  a  man  who  wasn't 
able  to  answer  a  single  question?"  And  Thorn  knew  it.  At 
first  he  was  alarmed  at  what  he  had  done.  He  could  easily 
see  how  such  a  performance,  if  known,  might  stand  in  the  light 
of  his  reappointment  to  teach  in  the  college,  even  if  it  didn't 
eject  him  at  once.  But  before  he  returned  to  his  room,  after 
walking  miles,  he  scarcely  knew  where,  fear  had  entirely  given 
way  to  shame,  —  an  over-powering  shame  that  actually  made 
the  man  sick  at  his  stomach.  It  wasn't  as  if  he  had  committed 
a  man's  fault  in  a  world  of  men  where  he  would  be  comfortably 
judged  and  damned  by  a  tribunal  he  respected  about  as  much  as 
he  respected  himself.  He  had  turned  himself  inside  out  before 
the  clear  eyes  of  a  lot  of  boys,  whose  dealings  with  themselves 
and  one  another  were  like  so  many  shafts  of  white  light  in  an 


CHARLES  MACOMB  FLANDREAU  451 

unrefracting  medium.  He  had  let  them  know  what  a  weak, 
characterless,  poor  thing  he  was,  by  holding  himself  open  to  a 
bribe,  showing  himself  willing  to  exchange,  for  the  leavings  of 
their  friendships,  something  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  give  only 
when  earned,  prostituting  his  profession  that  they  might  continue 
to  like  him  a  little,  tolerate  his  presence  among  them.  And  he 
was  one  whom  the  college  had  honored  by  judging  worthy  to 
stand  up  before  young  men  and  teach  them.  It  was  really 
very  sickening. 

Thorn  couldn't  bring  himself  to  go  near  the  club  for  some  days. 
He  knew,  however,  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  present,  what  had 
probably  happened  there  in  the  meanwhile.  Prescott  had  told 
Haydock  and  Wolcott,  and  very  likely  some  of  the  others,  the 
story  of  his  examination.  They  had  laughed  at  first,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  good  joke  in  which  Prescott  had  come  out  decidedly 
ahead ;  then  Haydock  had  said  something  —  Thorn  could  hear 
him  saying  it  —  that  put  the  matter  in  a  pitilessly  true  light, 
and  the  others  had  agreed  with  him.  They  usually  did  in  the 
end.  It  took  all  the  "nerve"  Thorn  had  to  show  himself 
again. 

But  when  he  had  summoned  up  enough  courage  to  drop  in  at 
the  club  late  one  evening,  he  found  every  one's  manner  toward 
him  pretty  much  as  it  always  had  been;  yet  he  could  tell  in- 
stinctively, as  he  sat  there,  who  had  and  who  hadn't  heard 
Prescott's  little  anecdote.  Wolcott  knew;  he  called  Thorn, 
"  Marcus,"  with  unnecessary  gusto,  and  once  or  twice  laughed  his 
peculiarly  irritating  laugh  when  there  was  nothing,  as  far  as 
Thorn  could  see,  to  laugh  at.  Haydock  knew;  Thorn  winced 
under  the  cool  speculative  stare  of  the  senior's  grey  eyes.  Wynne 
knew;  although  Thorn  had  no  more  specific  reason  for  believing 
so,  than  that  the  boy  seemed  rather  more  formidably  bespec- 
tacled than  usual.  Several  of  the  younger  fellows  also  knew; 
Thorn  knew  that  they  knew;  he  couldn't  stand  it.  When  the 
front  door  slammed  after  him  on  his  way  back  to  his  room,  he 


452  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

told  himself  that,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  it  had  slammed 
for  the  last  time. 

He  was  very  nearly  right.  He  would  have  had  to  be  a  pachy- 
derm compared  to  which  the  "blood-sweating  behemoth  of 
Holy  Writ"  is  a  mere  satin-skinned  invalid,  in  order  to  have 
brazened  out  the  rest  of  the  year  on  the  old  basis.  He  couldn't 
go  to  the  club  and  converse  on  base-ball  and  the  "  musical 
glasses,"  knowing  that  the  fellows  with  whom  he  was  talking 
were  probably  weighing  the  pros  and  cons  of  taking  his  courses 
next  year,  and  getting  creditable  marks  in  them,  without  doing 
a  stroke  of  work.  He  couldn't  face  that  "  rough  justice  of  boys  " 
that  would  sanction  the  fellows  making  use  of  him,  and  consider- 
ing him  a  pretty  poor  thing,  at  the  same  time.  So  he  stayed 
away;  he  didn't  go  near  the  place  through  March  and  April 
and  May.  When  his  work  didn't  call  him  elsewhere,  he  stayed 
in  his  room  and  attempted  to  live  the  life  of  a  scholar,  —  an 
existence  for  which  he  was  in  every  conceivable  way  unfitted. 
For  a  time  he  studied  hard  out  of  books;  but  the  most  profitable 
knowledge  he  acquired  in  his  solitude  was  the  great  deal  he 
learned  about  himself.  He  tried  to  write.  He  had  always 
thought  it  in  him  to  "write  something,"  if  he  ever  should  find 
the  necessary  leisure.  But  the  play  he  began  amounted  to 
no  more  than  a  harmless  pretext  for  discoursing  in  a  disillusioned 
strain  on  Life  and  Art  in  the  many  letters  he  wrote  to  people 
he  had  known  abroad,  —  people,  for  whom,  all  at  once,  he  con- 
ceived a  feeling  of  intimacy  that  no  doubt  surprised  them  when 
they  received  his  letters.  His  volume  of  essays  was  never 
actually  written,  but  the  fact  that  he  was  hard  at  work  on  it 
served  well  as  an  answer  to:  — 

"Why  the  devil  don't  we  ever  see  you  at  the  club  nowadays?" 

For  the  fellows  asked  him  that,  of  course,  when  he  met  them 

in  the  Yard  or  in  the  electric  cars;   and  Haydock  tarried  once 

or  twice  after  his  lecture  and  hoped  politely  that  he  was  coming 

to  the  next  club  dinner.    He  wasn't  at  the  next  club  dinner, 


CHARLES  MACOMB   FLANDREAU  453 

t 
however,  nor  the  next,  nor  the  next.  Haydock  stopped  remind- 
ing him  of  them.  The  club  had  gradually  ceased  to  have  any 
but  a  spectacular  interest  for  Thorn.  His  part  at  a  dinner  there 
would  be  —  and,  since  his  return,  always  had  been  —  that  of 
decorous  audience  in  the  stalls,  watching  a  sprightly  farce. 
The  club  didn't  insist  on  an  audience,  so  Thorn's  meetings  with 
its  members  were  few.  He  saw  Haydock  and  Prescott,  in  a 
purely  official  way,  more  than  any  of  them.  Strangely  enough, 
Prescott  seemed  to  be  trying  to  do  better  in  Thorn's  course. 
He  came  to  the  lectures  as  regularly  as  he  had  avoided  them 
before  the  midyears.  He  handed  in  written  work  of  such 
ingenious  unintelligence  that  there  was  no  question  in  Thorn's 
mind  as  to  the  boy 's  having  conscientiously  evolved  it  unaided. 
The  instructor  liked  the  spirit  of  Prescott's  efforts,  although 
it  was  a  perpetual  "rubbing  in  "  of  the  memory  of  his  own 
indiscretion;  it  displayed  a  pretty  understanding  of  noblesse 
oblige. 

The  second  half  year  was  long  and  dreary  and  good  for  Thorn. 
It  set  him  down  hard,  —  so  hard  that  when  he  collected  himself 
and  began  to  look  about  him  once  more,  he  knew  precisely  where 
he  was  —  which  was  something  he  hadn't  known  until  then. 
He  was  thirty- two  years  old;  he  looked  thirty-five,  and  he  felt 
a  hundred,  to  begin  with.  He  wasn't  an  undergraduate,  and 
he  hadn't  been  one  for  a  good  many  years.  He  still  felt  that  he 
loved  youth  and  sympathized  with  its  every  phase,  —  from 
its  mindless  gambolings  to  its  preposterous  maturity.  But  he 
knew  now  that  it  was  with  the  love  and  sympathy  of  one  who  had 
lost  it.  He  had  learned,  too,  that  when  it  goes,  it  bids  one  a 
cavalier  adieu,  and  takes  with  it  what  one  has  come  to  regard  as 
one 's  rights,  —  like  a  saucy  house-maid  departing  with  the 
spoons.  He  knew  that  he  had  no  rights;  he  had  forfeited  them 
by  losing  some  of  his  hair.  He  wouldn  't  get  any  of  them  back 
again  until  he  had  lost  all  of  it.  He  was  the  merest  speck  on 
the  horizon  of  the  fellows  whom  he  had,  earlier  in  the  year, 


454  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

• 
tried  to  know  on  a  basis  of  equality,  — a  sp;ck  too  far  away, 
too  microscopic  even  to  annoy  them.  If  he  had  only  known 
it  all  along,  he  told  himself,  how  different  his  year  might  have 
been.  He  wouldn't  have  squandered  the  first  four  months  of 
it,  for  one  thing,  in  a  stupid  insistence  on  a  relation  that  must 
of  necessity  be  artificial  —  unsatisfying.  He  wouldn't  have 
spent  the  last  five  of  it  in  coming  to  his  senses.  He  wouldn't 
have  misused  all  of  it  in  burning  —  or  at  least  in  allowing  to 
fall  into  a  precarious  state  of  unrepair  —  the  bridges  that  led 
back  to  the  friends  of  his  own  age  and  time. 

"I  have  learned  more  than  I  have  taught,  this  year,"  thought 
Thorn. 

To-day  was  Thorn's  birthday.  Impelled  by  a  tender,  tepid 
feeling  of  self-pity  the  instructor  had  come  once  more  to  the  club 
to  look  at  it  and  say  good-bye  before  leaving  Cambridge.  He 
would  have  liked  to  breakfast  on  the  piazza  and  suffer  luxu- 
riously alone.  But  just  at  the  moment  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
most  deeply,  Sears  Wolcott  appeared  at  the  open  French 
window,  and  said  he  was  "Going  to  eat  out  there  in  the  land- 
scape too."     So  Thorn,  in  spite  of  himself,  had  to  revive. 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  Pudding  show  last  night?" 
began  Sears.  Talk  with  him  usually  meant  leading  questions 
and  their  simplest  answers. 

"It  was  very  amusing  —  very  well  done,"  said  Thorn.  What 
was  the  use,  he  asked  himself,  of  drawing  a  cow-eyed  stare  from 
Wolcott  by  saying  what  he  really  thought  —  that  Strawberry 
Night  at  the  Pudding  had  been  "exuberant,"  "noisy,"  "in- 
tensely young." 

"I  saw  you  after  it  was  over,"  Sears  went  on;  "why  didn't 
you  buck  up  with  the  old  grads  around  the  piano?  You  looked 
lonely." 

"I  was  lonely,"  answered  Thorn,  truthfully  this  time. 

"Where  were  your  classmates?    There  was  a  big  crowd  out." 


CHARLES  MACOMB  FLANDREAU  455 

"  My  classmates?  Oh,  they  were  there,  I  suppose.  I  haven't 
seen  much  of  them  this  year." 

Wolcott's  next  question  was:  — 

"Why  the  devil  can 't  we  have  better  strawberries  at  this  club, 
I  wonder?  Where's  the  granulated  sugar?  They  know  I 
never  eat  this  damned  face  powder  on  anything."  He  called 
loudly  for  the  steward,  and  Thorn  went  on  with  his  breakfast 
in  silence.  After  Sears  had  been  appeased  with  granulated  sugar, 
he  asked:  — 

"  Going  to  be  here  next  year?" 

"I've  been  reappointed;  but  I  think  I  shall  live  in  town. 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  nothing  —  I  was  thinking  I  might  take  your  courses. 
What  mark  is  Prescott  going  to  get  for  the  year?" 

Thorn  looked  up  to  meet  Wolcott's  eyes  unflinchingly;  but 
the  boy  was  deeply  absorbed  in  studying  the  little  air  bubbles 
on  the  surface  of  his  coffee. 

"I  don't  know  what  mark  he'll  get.  I  haven't  looked  at  his 
book  yet,"  said  Thorn.  Sears  remarked  "Oh!"  and  laughed 
as  he  submerged  the  bubbles  with  a  spoon.  It  was  unlike  him 
not  to  have  said,  "You  do  go  through  the  formality  of  reading 
his  books  then?" 

Prescott  and  Wynne  joined  them.  They  chattered  gaily 
with  Wolcott  about  nothing  out  there  on  the  piazza,  and  watched 
the  slim  lady  on  the  other  side  of  the  nodding  lilac  bushes  cut 
nasturtiums.  Thorn  listened  to  them,  and  looked  at  them, 
and  liked  them;  but  he  couldn't  be  one  of  them,  even  for  the 
moment.  He  couldn't  babble  unpremeditately  about  nothing, 
because  he  had  forgotten  how  it  was  done.  So,  in  a  little  while, 
he  got  up  to  leave  them.  He  had  to  mark  some  examination 
books  and  pack  his  trunks  and  go  abroad,  he  told  them.  He  said 
good-bye  to  Prescott  and  Wolcott  and  Wynne  and  some  others 
who  had  come  in  while  they  were  at  breakfast,  and  hoped  they 
would  have  "a  good  summer."    They  hoped  the  same  to  him. 


456  A  DEAD  ISSUE 

As  he  strolled  back  to  his  room  with  the  sounds  of  their  voices 
in  his  ears,  but  with  no  memory  of  what  they  had  been  saying, 
he  wondered  if,  after  all,  they  hadn't  from  the  very  first  bored 
him  just  a  little;  if  his  unhappiness  —  his  sense  of  failure  when 
he  talked  to  young  people  —  didn't  come  from  the  fact  that  they 
commended  themselves  to  his  affections  rather  than  to  his  in- 
tellect.   Thorn  was  a  vain  man  in  a  quiet  way. 

Prescott's  final  examination  book  certainly  didn't  commend 
itself  to  his  intellect.  It  was  long,  and  conscientious,  and 
quite  incorrect  from  cover  to  cover.  The  instructor  left  it  until 
the  last.    He  almost  missed  his  train  in  deciding  upon  its  mark. 


XXXII.  THE   CAPTAIN'S  VICES' 
Francois  Coppee 

[We  have  all  of  us  seen  village  "characters"  frittering  away  their  useful  possi- 
bilities in  village  loafing  places  and  pool  rooms.  The  genial  futility  of  this  sort  of 
existence  has  impressed  all  of  us.  To  make  a  story  of  this  feature  of  daily  life, 
that  will  at  the  same  time  preserve  and  expose  its  geniality,  requires  an  unusual 
amount  of  logical  imagination.  The  problem  which  Captain  Mercadier  faces  is 
no  more  interesting  than  the  problem  of  how  he  could  be  reformed  and  not  spoilt 
in  the  process,  which  the  author's  imagination  had  to  face.  To  be  told  that  the 
plot  consists  of  the  adoption  by  Captain  Mercadier,  the  bon  viveur,  of  a  forlorn 
crippled  child  sounds  a  trifle  melodramatic.  Whereas  the  wonderfully  delicate 
and  gradual  explanation  of  this  emphasizes  not  the  strangeness  of  the  Captain's 
action,  but  its  inevitability.  To  accentuate  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  conso- 
nant —  that  is  the  art  of  composing  the  incidents  of  life  by  means  of  the  imagination. 2 

It  is  of  no  importance,  the  name  of  the  little  provincial  city 
where  Captain  Mercadier  —  twenty-six  years  of  service,  twenty- 
two  campaigns,  and  three  wounds  —  installed  himself  when  he 
was  retired  on  a  pension. 

It  was  quite  like  all  those  other  little  villages  which  solicit 
without  obtaining  it  a  branch  of  the  railway;  just  as  if  it  were  not 
the  sole  dissipation  of  the  natives  to  go  every  day,  at  the  same 
hour,  to  the  Place  de  la  Fontaine  to  see  the  diligence  come  in  at 
full  gallop,  with  its  gay  cracking  of  the  whips  and  clang  of  bells. 

It  was  a  place  of  three  thousand  inhabitants  —  ambitiously 
denominated  souls  in  the  statistical  tables  —  and  was  exceed- 
ingly proud  of  its  title  of  chief  city  of  the  canton.  It  had  ram- 
parts planted  with  trees,  a  pretty  river  with  good  fishing,  a 
church  of  the  charming  epoch  of  the  flamboyant  Gothic,  dis- 
graced by  a  frightful  station  of  the  cross,  brought  directly  from 
the  quarter  of  Saint  Sulpice.  Every  Monday  its  market  was  gay 
with  great  red  and  blue  umbrellas,  and  countrymen  filled  its 

1  Reprinted  from  Ten  Tales  by  Coppee  (translated  by  Walter  Learned)  with  the 
kind  permission  of  Harper  and  Brothers. 


458  THE    CAPTAIN'S    VICES 

streets  in  carts  and  carriages.  But  for  the  rest  of  the  week  it  re- 
tired with  delight  into  that  silence  and  solitude  which  made  it  so 
dear  to  its  rustic  population.  Its  streets  were  paved  with  cobble- 
stones; through  the  windows  of  the  ground-floor  one  could  see 
samplers  and  wax-flowers  under  glass  domes,  and,  through  the 
gates  of  the  gardens,  statuettes  of  Napoleon  in  shell-work.  The 
principal  inn  was  naturally  called  the  Shield  of  France;  and  the 
town-clerk  made  rhymed  acrostics  for  the  ladies  of  society. 

Captain  Mercadier  had  chosen  that  place  of  retreat  for  the 
simple  reason  that  he  had  been  born  there,  and  because,  in  his 
noisy  childhood,  he  had  pulled  down  the  signs  and  plugged  up 
the  bell-buttons.  He  returned  there  to  find  neither  relations, 
nor  friends,  nor  acquaintances;  and  the  recollections  of  his 
youth  recalled  only  the  angry  faces  of  shop-keepers  who  shook 
their  fists  at  him  from  the  shop-doors,  a  catechism  which  threat- 
ened him  with  hell,  a  school  which  predicted  the  scaffold,  and, 
finally,  his  departure  for  his  regiment,  hastened  by  a  paternal 
malediction. 

For  the  Captain  was  not  a  saintly  man;  the  old  record  of  his 
punishment  was  black  with  days  in  the  guard-house  inflicted 
for  breaches  of  discipline,  absences  from  roll-calls,  and  nocturnal 
uproars  in  the  mess-room.  He  had  often  narrowly  escaped 
losing  his  stripes  as  a  corporal  or  a  sergeant,  and  he  needed 
all  the  chance,  all  the  license  of  a  campaigning  life,  to  gain  his 
first  epaulet.  Firm  and  brave  soldier,  he  had  passed  almost  all 
his  life  in  Algiers  at  that  time  when  our  foot  soldiers  wore  the 
high  shako,  white  shoulder-belts  and  huge  cartridge-boxes. 
He  had  had  Lamoriciere  for  commander.  The  Due  de  Nemours, 
near  whom  he  received  his  first  wound,  had  decorated  him, 
and  when  he  was  sergeant-major,  Pere  Bugrand  had  called  him 
by  his  name  and  pulled  his  ears.  He  had  been  a  prisoner  of 
Abd-el-Kader,  bearing  the  scar  of  a  yataghan  stroke  on  his  neck, 
of  one  ball  in  his  shoulder  and  another  in  his  chest;  and  not- 
withstanding absinthe,  duels,  debts  of  play,  and  almond-eyed 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE  459 

Jewesses,  he  fairly  won,  with  the  point  of  the  bayonet  and 
sabre,  his  grade  of  captain  in  the  First  Regiment  of  Sharp- 
shooters. 

Captain  Mercadier  —  twenty-six  years  of  service,  twenty- 
two  campaigns,  and  three  wounds  —  had  just  retired  on  his 
pension,  not  quite  two  thousand  francs,  which,  joined  to  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  francs  from  his  cross,  placed  him  in  that  estate 
of  honorable  penury  which  the  State  reserves  for  its  old 
servants. 

His  entry  into  his  natal  city  was  without  ostentation.  He 
arrived  one  morning  on  the  imperiale  of  the  diligence,  chewing 
an  extinguished  cigar,  and  already  on  good  terms  with  the 
conductor,  to  whom,  during  his  journey,  he  had  related  the  pas- 
sage of  the  Porte  de  Fer;  full  of  indulgence,  moreover,  for  the 
distractions  of  his  auditor,  who  often  interrupted  the  recital  by 
some  oath  or  epithet  addressed  to  the  off  mare.  When  the 
diligence  stopped  he  threw  on  the  sidewalk  his  old  valise,  covered 
with  railway  placards  as  numerous  as  the  changes  of  garrison 
that  its  proprietor  had  made,  and  the  idlers  of  the  neighborhood 
were  astonished  to  see  a  man  with  a  decoration  —  a  rare  thing 
in  the  province  —  offer  a  glass  of  wine  to  the  coachman  at  the 
bar  of  an  inn  near  by. 

He  installed  himself  at  once.  In  a  house  in  the  outskirts, 
where  two  captive  cows  lowed,  and  fowls  and  ducks  passed  and 
repassed  through  the  gate-way,  a  furnished  chamber  was  to 
let.  Preceded  by  a  masculine-looking  woman,  the  Captain 
climbed  the  stair-way  with  its  great  wooden  balusters,  perfumed 
by  a  strong  odor  of  the  stable,  and  reached  a  great  tiled  room, 
whose  walls  were  covered  with  a  bizarre  paper  representing, 
printed  in  blue  on  a  white  background  and  repeated  infinitely, 
the  picture  of  Joseph  Poniatowski  crossing  the  Elster  on  his 
horse.  This  monotonous  decoration,  recalling  nevertheless  our 
military  glories,  fascinated  the  Captain  without  doubt,  for, 
without    concerning    himself    with    the    uncomfortable    straw 


460  THE  CAPTAIN'S  VICES 

chairs,  the  walnut  furniture,  or  the  little  bed  with  its  yellowed 
curtain,  he  took  the  room  without  hesitation.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour  was  enough  to  empty  his  trunk,  hang  up  his  clothes,  put 
his  boots  in  a  corner,  and  ornament  the  wall  with  a  trophy 
composed  of  three  pipes,  a  sabre,  and  a  pair  of  pistols.  After 
a  visit  to  the  grocer's,  over  the  way,  where  he  bought  a  pound 
of  candles  and  a  bottle  of  rum,  he  returned,  put  his  purchase 
on  the  mantle-shelf,  and  looked  around  him  with  an  air  of 
perfect  satisfaction.  And  then,  with  the  promptitude  of  the 
camp,  he  shaved  without  a  mirror,  brushed  his  coat,  cocked 
his  hat  over  his  ear,  and  went  for  a  walk  in  the  village  in  search 
of  a  cafe. 

It  was  an  inveterate  habit  of  the  Captain  to  spend  much  of  his 
time  at  a  cafe.  It  was  there  that  he  satisfied  at  the  same  time 
the  three  vices  which  reigned  supreme  in  his  heart  —  tobacco, 
absinthe,  and  cards.  It  was  thus  that  he  passed  his  life,  and 
he  could  have  drawn  a  plan  of  all  the  places  where  he  had  ever 
been  stationed  by  their  tobacco  shops,  cafes,  and  military  clubs. 
He  never  felt  himself  so  thoroughly  at  ease  as  when  sitting  on  a 
worn  velvet  bench  before  a  square  of  green  cloth  near  a  heap 
of  beer-mugs  and  saucers.  His  cigar  never  seemed  good  unless 
he  struck  his  match  under  the  marble  of  the  table,  and  he  never 
failed,  after  hanging  his  hat  and  his  sabre  on  a  hat-hook  and 
settling  himself  comfortably,  by  unloosing  one  or  two  buttons 
of  his  coat,  to  breathe  a  profound  sigh  of  relief,  and  exclaim: 

"That  is  better!" 

His  first  care  was,  therefore,  to  find  an  establishment  which 
he  could  frequent,  and  after  having  gone  around  the  village  with- 
out finding  anything  that  suited  him,  he  stopped  at  last  to  re- 
gard with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur  the  Cafe  Prosper,  situated 
at  the  corner  of  the  Place  du  Marche  and  the  Rue  de  la  Pavoisse. 

It  was  not  his  ideal.  Some  of  the  details  of  the  exterior  were 
too  provincial:  the  waiter,  in  his  black  apron,  for  example, 
the  little  stands  in  their  green  frames,  the  footstools,  and  the 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE  461 

wooden  tables  covered  with  waxed  cloth.  But  the  interior 
pleased  the  Captain.  He  was  delighted  upon  his  entrance  by  the 
sound  of  the  bell  which  was  touched  by  the  fair  and  fleshy  dame 
de  comptoir,  in  her  light  dress,  with  a  poppy-colored  ribbon  in 
her  sleek  hair.  He  saluted  her  gallantly,  and  believed  that  she 
sustained  with  sufficient  majesty  her  triumphal  place  between 
two  piles  of  punch-bowls  properly  crowned  by  billiard-balls. 
He  ascertained  that  the  place  was  cheerful,  neat,  and  strewn 
evenly  with  yellow  sand.  He  walked  around  it,  looking  at 
himself  in  the  glasses  as  he  passed;  approved  the  panels  where 
guardsmen  and  amazons  were  drinking  champagne  in  a  land- 
scape filled  with  red  holly-hocks;  called  for  his  absinthe,  smoked, 
found  the  divan  soft  and  the  absinthe  good,  and  was  indulgent 
enough  not  to  complain  of  the  flies  that  bathed  themselves  in 
his  glass  with  true  rustic  familiarity. 

Eight  days  later  he  had  become  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  Cafe 
Prosper. 

They  soon  learned  his  punctual  habits  and  anticipated  his 
wishes,  while  he,  in  turn,  lunched  with  the  patrons  of  the  place  — 
a  valuable  recruit  for  those  who  haunted  the  cafe,  folks  oppressed 
by  the  tedium  of  a  country  life,  for  whom  the  arrival  of  that  new- 
comer, past  master  in  all  games,  and  an  admirable  raconteur 
of  his  wars  and  his  loves,  was  a  true  stroke  of  good-fortune. 
The  Captain  himself  was  delighted  to  tell  his  stories  to  folks 
who  were  still  ignorant  of  his  repertoire.  There  were  fully 
six  months  before  him  in  which  to  tell  of  his  games,  his  feats, 
his  battles,  the  retreat  of  Constantine,  the  capture  of  Bou- 
Maza,  and  the  officers'  receptions  with  the  concomitant  in- 
toxication of  rum-punch. 

Human  weakness!  He  was  by  no  means  sorry,  on  his  part, 
to  be  something  of  an  oracle;  he  from  whom  the  sub-lieutenants, 
newcomers  at  Saint-Cyr,  fled  dismayed,  fearing  his  long  stories. 

His  usual  auditors  were  the  keeper  of  the  cafe,  a  stupid  and 
silent  beer-cask,  always  in  his  sleeved  vest,  and  remarkable 


462  THE  CAPTAIN'S  VICES 

only  for  his  carved  pipe;  the  bailiff,  a  scoffer,  dressed  invariably 
in  black,  scorned  for  his  inelegant  habit  of  carrying  off  what 
remained  of  his  sugar;  the  town-clerk,  the  gentleman  of  acrostics, 
a  person  of  much  amiability  and  a  feeble  constitution,  who  sent 
to  the  illustrated  journals  solutions  of  engimas  and  rebuses; 
and  lastly,  the  veterinary  surgeon  of  the  place,  the  only  one  who, 
from  his  position  of  atheist  and  democrat,  was  allowed  to  con- 
tradict the  Captain.  This  practitioner,  a  man  with  tufted 
whiskers  and  eye-glasses,  presided  over  the  radical  committee 
of  electors,  and  when  the  cure  took  up  a  little  collection  among 
his  devotees  for  the  purpose  of  adorning  his  church  with  some 
frightful  red  and  gilded  statues,  denounced,  in  a  letter  to  the 
Steele,  the  cupidity  of  the  Jesuits. 

The  Captain  having  gone  out  one  evening  for  some  cigars 
after  an  animated  political  discussion,  the  aforesaid  veterinary 
grumbled  to  himself  certain  phrases  of  heavy  irritation  con- 
cerning "coming  to  the  point,"  and  "a  mere  fencing-master," 
and  "cutting  a  figure."  But  as  the  object  of  these  vague  men- 
aces suddenly  returned,  whistling  a  march  and  beating  time  with 
his  cane,  the  incident  was  without  result. 

In  short,  the  group  lived  harmoniously  together,  and  willingly 
permitted  themselves  to  be  presided  over  by  the  new-comer, 
whose  white  beard  and  martial  bearing  were  quite  impressive. 
And  the  small  city,  proud  of  so  many  things,  was  also  proud  of 
its  retired  Captain. 

Perfect  happiness  exists  nowhere,  and  Captain  Mercadier, 
who  believed  that  he  had  found  it  at  the  Cafe  Prosper,  soon 
recovered  from  his  illusion. 

For  one  thing,  on  Mondays,  the  market-day,  the  Cafe  Prosper 
was  untenantable. 

From  early  morning  it  was  overrun  with  truck-peddlers, 
farmers,  and  poultrymen.  Heavy  men  with  coarse  voices,  red 
necks,  and  great  whips  in  their  hands,  wearing  blue  blouses 
and   otter-skin   caps,   bargaining   over   their   cups,    stamping 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE  463 

their  feet,  striking  their  fists,  familiar  with  the  servant,  and 
bungling  at  billiards. 

When  the  Captain  came,  at  eleven  o'clock,  for  his  first  glass 
of  absinthe,  he  found  this  crowd  gathered,  and  already  half- 
drunk,  ordering  a  quantity  of  lunches.  His  usual  place  was 
taken,  and  he  was  served  slowly  and  badly.  The  bell  was  con- 
tinually sounding,  and  the  proprietor  and  the  waiter,  with  nap- 
kins under  their  arms,  were  running  distractedly  hither  and 
thither.  In  short,  it  was  an  ill-omened  day,  which  upset  his 
entire  existence. 

Now,  one  Monday  morning,  when  he  was  resting  quietly 
at  home,  being  sure  that  the  cafe  would  be  much  too  full  and 
busy,  the  mild  radiance  of  the  autumn  sun  persuaded  him  to  go 
down  and  sit  upon  the  stone  seat  by  the  side  of  the  house.  He 
was  sitting  there,  depressed  and  smoking  a  damp  cigar,  when 
he  saw  coming  down  the  end  of  the  street  —  it  was  a  badly 
paved  lane  leading  out  into  the  country  —  a  little  girl  of  eight 
or  ten,  driving  before  her  a  half-dozen  geese. 

As  the  captain  looked  carelessly  at  the  child,  he  saw  that 
she  had  a  wooden  leg. 

There  was  nothing  paternal  in  the  heart  of  the  soldier.  It 
was  that  of  a  hardened  bachelor.  In  former  days,  in  the  streets 
of  Algiers,  when  the  little  begging  Arabs  pursued  him  with  their 
importunate  prayers,  the  Captain  had  often  chased  them  away 
with  blows  from  his  whip;  and  on  those  rare  occasions  when 
he  had  penetrated  the  nomadic  household  of  some  comrade 
who  was  married  and  the  father  of  a  family,  he  had  gone  away 
cursing  the  crying  babies  and  awkward  children  who  had  touched 
with  their  greasy  hands  the  gilding  on  his  uniform. 

But  the  sight  of  that  particular  infirmity,  which  recalled  to 
him  the  sad  spectacle  of  wounds  and  amputations,  touched, 
on  that  account,  the  old  soldier.  He  felt  almost  a  constriction 
of  the  heart  at  the  sight  of  that  sorry  creature,  half-clothed 
in  her  tattered  petticoats  and  old  chemise,  bravely  running 


464  THE   CAPTAIN'S   VICES 

along  behind  her  geese,  her  bare  foot  in  the  dust,  and  limping 
on  her  ill-made  wooden  stump. 

The  geese,  recognizing  their  home,  turned  into  the  poultry 
yard,  and  the  little  one  was  about  to  follow  them  when  the 
Captain  stopped  her  with  this  question: 

"Eh!    little  girl,  what's  your  name?" 

"Pierette,  monsieur,  at  your  service,"  she  answered,  looking 
at  him  with  her  great  black  eyes,  and  pushing  her  disordered 
locks  from  her  forehead. 

"You  live  in  this  house,  then?    I  haven't  seen  you  before." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  pretty  well,  though,  for  I  sleep  under  the 
stairs,  and  you  wake  me  up  every  evening  when  you  come  home." 

"Is  that  so,  my  girl?  Ah,  well,  I  must  walk  on  my  toes  in 
future.    How  old  are  you?" 

"Nine,  monsieur,  come  All-Saints  day." 

"Is  the  landlady  here  a  relative  of  yours?" 

"No,  monsieur,  I  am  in  service." 

"And  they  give  you?" 

"Soup,  and  a  bed  under  the  stairs." 

"And  how  came  you  to  be  lame  like  that,  my  poor  little  one?" 

"By  the  kick  of  a  cow  when  I  was  five." 

"Have  you  father  or  mother?" 

The  child  blushed  under  her  sunburned  skin.  "I  came  from 
the  Foundling  Hospital,"  she  said  briefly.  Then,  with  an  awk- 
ward courtesy,  she  passed  limping  into  the  house,  and  the  Cap- 
tain heard,  as  she  went  away  on  the  pavement  of  the  court, 
the  hard  sound  of  the  little  wooden  leg. 

Good  heavens!  he  thought,  mechanically  walking  towards 
his  cafe,  that's  not  at  all  the  thing.  A  soldier,  at  least,  they 
pack  off  to  the  Invalides,  with  the  money  from  his  medal  to  keep 
him  in  tobacco.  For  an  officer,  they  fix  up  a  collectorship, 
and  he  marries  somewhere  in  the  provinces.  But  this  poor 
girl,  with  such  an  infirmity,  —  that's  not  at  all  the  thing! 

Having  established  in  these  terms  the  injustice  of  fate,  the 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE  465 

Captain  reached  the  threshold  of  his  dear  cafe,  but  he  saw  there 
such  a  mob  of  blue  blouses,  he  heard  such  a  din  of  laughter  and 
click  of  billiard-balls,  that  he  returned  home  in  very  bad  humor. 

His  room  —  it  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  that  he  had  spent 
in  it  several  hours  of  the  day  —  looked  rather  shabby.  His 
bed-curtains  were  the  color  of  an  -old  pipe.  The  fireplace  was 
heaped  with  old  cigar-stumps,  and  one  could  have  written  his 
name  in  the  dust  on  the  furniture.  He  contemplated  for  some 
time  the  walls  where  the  sublime  lancer  of  Leipsic  rode  a  hun- 
dred times  to  a  glorious  death.  Then,  for  an  occupation,  he 
passed  his  wardrobe  in  review.  It  was  a  lamentable  series  of 
bottomless  pockets,  socks  full  of  holes,  and  shirts  without 
buttons. 

"I  must  have  a  servant,"  he  said. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  little  lame  girl. 

"That's  what  I'll  do.  I'll  hire  the  next  little  room;  winter 
is  coming,  and  the  little  thing  will  freeze  under  the  stairs.  She 
will  look  after  my  clothes  and  my  linen  and  keep  the  barracks 
clean.    A  valet,  how's  that?" 

But  a  cloud  darkened  the  comfortable  picture.  The  Captain 
remembered  that  quarter-day  was  still  a  long  way  off,  and  that 
his  account  at  the  Cafe  Prosper  was  assuming  alarming  pro- 
portions. 

"Not  rich  enough,"  he  said  to  himself.  "And  in  the  mean- 
time they  are  robbing  me  down  there.  That  is  positive.  The 
board  is  too  high,  and  that  wretch  of  a  veterinary  plays  bezique 
much  too  well.  I  have  paid  his  way  now  for  eight  days.  Who 
knows?  Perhaps  I  had  better  put  the  little  one  in  charge  of 
the  mess,  soup  au  cafe  in  the  morning,  stew  at  noon,  and  ragout 
every  evening  —  campaign  life,  in  fact.  I  know  all  about  that. 
Quite  the  thing  to  try." 

Going  out  he  saw  at  once  the  mistress  of  the  house,  a  great 
brutal  peasant,  and  the  little  lame  girl,  who  both,  with  pitch- 
forks in  their  hands,  were  turning  over  the  dung-heap  in  the  yard. 


466  THE  CAPTAIN'S  VICES 

"Does  she  know  how  to  sew,  to  wash,  to  make  soup?"  he  asked 
brusquely. 

"Who  —  Pierette?    Why?" 

"Does  she  know  a  little  of  all  that?" 

"Of  course.  She  came  from  an  asylum  where  they  learn 
how  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

"Tell  me,  little  one,"  added  the  Captain,  speaking  to  the 
child,  "I  am  not  scaring  you  —  no?  Well,  my  good  woman, 
will  you  let  me  have  her?    I  want  a  servant." 

"If  you  will  support  her." 

"Then  that  is  finished.  Here  are  twenty  francs.  Let  her 
have  to-night  a  dress  and  a  shoe.  To-morrow  we'll  arrange 
the  rest." 

And,  with  a  friendly  tap  on  Pierette's  cheek,  the  Captain 
went  off,  delighted  that  everything  was  concluded.  Possibly 
he  thought  he  would  have  to  cut  off  some  glasses  of  beer  and 
absinthe,  and  be  cautious  of  the  veterinary's  skill  at  bezique. 
But  that  was  not  worth  speaking  of,  and  the  new  arrangement 
would  be  quite  the  thing. 

Captain,  you  are  a  coward ! 

Such  was  the  apostrophe  with  which  the  caryatides  of  the 
Cafe  Prosper  hereafter  greeted  the  Captain,  whose  visits  became 
rarer  day  by  day. 

For  the  poor  man  had  not  seen  all  the  consequences  of  his  good 
action.  The  suppression  of  his  morning  absinthe  had  been 
sufficient  to  cover  the  modest  expense  of  Pierette's  keeping, 
but  how  many  other  reforms  were  needed  to  provide  for  the  un- 
foreseen expenses  of  his  bachelor  establishment!  Full  of 
gratitude,  the  little  girl  wished  to  prove  it  by  her  zeal.  Already 
the  aspect  of  his  room  was  changed.  The  furniture  was  dusted 
and  arranged,  the  fireplace  cleaned,  the  floor  polished,  and  spiders 
no  longer  spun  their  webs  over  the  deaths  of  Poniatowski  in 
the  corner.  When  the  Captain  came  home  the  inviting  odor 
of  cabbage-soup  saluted  him  on  the  staircase,  and  the  sight 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE  467 

of  the  smoking  plates  on  the  coarse  but  white  table-cloth,  with 
a  bunch  of  flowers  and  polished  table-ware,  was  quite  enough 
to  give  him  a  good  appetite.  Pierette  profited  by  the  good 
humor  of  her  master  to  confess  some  of  her  secret  ambitions. 
She  wanted  andirons  for  the  fireplace,  where  there  was  now 
always  a  fire  burning,  and  a  mould  for  the  little  cakes  that  she 
knew  how  to  make  so  well.  And  the  Captain,  smiling  at  the 
child's  requests,  but  charmed  with  the  home-like  atmosphere 
of  his  room,  promised  to  think  of  it,  and  on  the  morrow  replaced 
his  Londres  by  cigars  for  a  sou  each,  hesitated  to  offer  five 
points  at  ecarte,  and  refused  his  third  glass  of  beer  or  his  second 
glass  of  chartreuse. 

Certainly  the  struggle  was  long;  it  was  cruel.  Often,  when 
the  hour  came  for  the  glass  that  was  denied  him  by  economy, 
when  thirst  seized  him  by  the  throat,  the  Captain  was  forced 
to  make  an  heroic  effort  to  withdraw  his  hand  already  reaching 
out  towards  the  swan's  beak  of  the  cafe;  many  times  he  wan- 
dered about,  dreaming  of  the  king  turned  up  and  of  quint  and 
quatorze.  But  he  almost  always  courageously  returned  home; 
and  as  he  loved  Pierette  more  through  every  sacrifice  that  he 
made  for  her,  he  embraced  her  more  fondly  every  day.  For  he 
did  embrace  her.  She  was  no  longer  his  servant.  When 
once  she  stood  before  him  at  the  table,  calling  him  "Monsieur," 
and  so  respectful  in  her  bearing,  he  could  not  stand  it,  but  seizing 
her  by  her  two  hands,  he  said  to  her,  eagerly: 

"First  embrace  me,  and  then  sit  down  and  do  me  the  pleasure 
of  speaking  familiarly,  confound  it!" 

And  so  to-day  it  is  accomplished.  Meeting  a  child  has  saved 
that  man  from  an  ignominious  age. 

He  has  substituted  for  his  old  vices  a  young  passion.  He 
adores  the  little  lame  girl  who  skips  around  him  in  his  room, 
which  is  comfortable  and  well  furnished. 

He  has  already  taught  Pierette  to  read,  and,  moreover,  re- 
calling his  calligraphy  as  a  sergeant-major,  he  has  set  her  copies 


468  THE  CAPTAIN'S  VICES 

in  writing.  It  is  his  greatest  joy  when  the  child,  bending  at- 
tentively over  her  paper,  and  sometimes  making  a  blot  which 
she  quickly  licks  up  with  her  tongue,  has  succeeded  in  copying 
all  the  letters  of  an  interminable  adverb  in  ment.  His  uneasiness 
is  in  thinking  that  he  is  growing  old  and  has  nothing  to  leave  his 
adopted  child. 

And  so  he  becomes  almost  a  miser;  he  theorizes;  he  wishes 
to  give  up  his  tobacco,  although  Pierette  herself  fills  and  lights 
his  pipe  for  him.  He  counts  on  saving  from  his  slender  income 
enough  to  purchase  a  little  stock  of  fancy  goods.  Then  when 
he  is  dead  she  can  live  an  obscure  and  tranquil  life,  hanging  up 
somewhere  in  the  back  room  of  the  small  shop  an  old  cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor,  her  souvenir  of  the  Captain. 

Every  day  he  goes  to  walk  with  her  on  the  rampart.  Some- 
times they  are  passed  by  folks  who  are  strangers  in  the  village, 
who  look  with  compassionate  surprise  at  the  old  soldier,  spared 
from  the  wars,  and  the  poor  lame  child.  And  he  is  moved  — 
oh,  so  pleasantly,  almost  to  tears  —  when  one  of  the  passers-by 
whispers,  as  they  pass: 

"Poor  father!    Yet  how  pretty  his  daughter  is." 


XXXIII.  A  COWARD1 

Guy  de  Maupassant 

[This  story  and  the  two  following  concern  the  moral  and  physical  problem  of  the 
duel.  The  duel  itself  has  almost  gone  out  of  fashion.  Like  the  military  caste 
with  its  arbitrary  ideas  of  right  and  privilege,  which  it  really  stands  for,  the  duel  is 
on  the  way  to  disorganization.  (It  is  disorganization  by  which  the  world  progresses 
just  as  much  as  by  organization.)  Like  the  military  caste,  again,  with  its  scant  diplo- 
macies and  its  wars,  the  duel  with  its  minor  etiquette  and  its  single  encounters, 
failed  to  solve  moral  problems.  But  it  still  serves  to  typify  them.  This  story  is 
discussed  in  the  introduction,  pages  401-402.3 

In  society  they  called  him  "the  handsome  Signoles."  His 
name  was  Viscount  Gontran  Joseph  de  Signoles. 

An  orphan  and  the  possessor  of  a  sufficient  fortune,  as  the 
saying  goes,  he  cut  a  dash.  He  had  a  fine  figure  and  bearing, 
enough  conversation  to  make  people  credit  him  with  cleverness, 
a  certain  natural  grace,  an  air  of  nobility  and  of  pride,  a  gallant 
mustache,  and  a  gentle  eye  —  a  thing  which  pleases  women. 

In  the  drawing-rooms  he  was  in  great  request,  much  sought 
after  as  a  partner  for  the  waltz;  and  he  inspired  among  men  that 
smiling  hatred  which  they  always  cherish  for  others  of  an  ener- 
getic figure.  He  passed  a  happy  and  tranquil  life,  in  a  comfort 
of  mind  which  was  most  complete.  It  was  known  that  he  was 
a  good  fencer,  and  as  a  pistol-shot  even  better. 

"  If  ever  I  fight  a  duel,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  choose  pistols.  With 
that  weapon  I  am  sure  of  killing  my  man." 

Now,  one  night,  having  accompanied  two  young  ladies,  his 
friends,  escorted  by  their  husbands,  to  the  theatre,  he  invited 
them  all  after  the  play  to  take  an  ice  at  Tortoni's.  They  had 
been  there  for  several  minutes,  when  he  perceived  that  a  gentle- 
man seated  at  a  neighboring  table  was  staring  obstinately  at 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Odd  Number,  Thirteen  Tales  by  Guy  de  Maupassant  (trans- 
lated by  Jonathan  Sturges)  with  the  kind  permission  of  Harper  and  Brothers. 


A70  A  COWARD 

one  of  his  companions.  She  seemed  put  out,  uneasy,  lowered 
her  head.     At  last  she  said  to  her  husband: 

"There  is  a  man  who  is  looking  me  out  of  countenance.  I 
do  not  know  him;  do  you?" 

The  husband,  who  had  seen  nothing,  raised  his  eyes,  but 
declared : 

"No,  not  at  all." 

The  young  lady  continued,  half  smiling,  half  vexed: 

"It  is  very  unpleasant;   that  man  is  spoiling  my  ice." 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"Bast!  don't  pay  any  attention  to  it.  If  we  had  to  occupy 
ourselves  about  every  insolent  fellow  that  we  meet  we  should 
never  have  done." 

But  the  viscount  had  risen  brusquely.  He  could  not  allow 
that  this  stranger  should  spoil  an  ice  which  he  had  offered. 
It  was  to  him  that  this  insult  was  addressed,  because  it  was 
through  him  and  on  his  account  that  his  friends  had  entered  this 
cafe.     So  the  matter  concerned  him  only. 

He  advanced  towards  the  man  and  said  to  him : 

"You  have,  sir,  a  manner  of  looking  at  those  ladies  which  I 
cannot  tolerate.  I  beg  of  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  cease  from  this 
insistence." 

The  other  answered: 

"You  are  going  to  mind  your  own  business,  curse  you." 

The  viscount  said,  with  close-pressed  teeth: 

"Take  care,  sir,  you  will  force  me  to  pass  bounds." 

The  gentleman  answered  but  one  word,  a  foul  word,  which 
rang  from  one  end  of  the  cafe  to  the  other,  and,  like  a  metal 
spring,  caused  every  guest  to  execute  a  sudden  movement. 
All  those  whose  backs  were  turned  wheeled  round ;  all  the  others 
raised  their  heads;  three  waiters  pivoted  upon  their  heels  like 
tops;  the  two  ladies  at  the  desk  gave  a  jump,  then  turned 
round  their  whole  bodies  from  the  waists  up,  as  if  they  had  been 
two  automata  obedient  to  the  same  crank. 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT      .  471 

A  great  silence  made  itself  felt.  Then,  on  a  sudden,  a  dry 
sound  cracked  in  the  air.  The  viscount  had  slapped  his  adver- 
sary's face.  Every  one  rose  to  interfere.  Cards  were  exchanged 
between  the  two. 

When  the  viscount  had  reached  home  he  paced  his  room  for 
several  minutes  with  great,  quick  strides.  He  was  too  much 
agitated  to  reflect  at  all.  One  single  idea  was  hovering  over  his 
mind  —  "a  duel"  —  without  arousing  in  him  as  yet  an  emotion 
of  any  sort.  He  had  done  that  which  he  ought  to  have  done; 
he  had  shown  himself  to  be  that  which  he  ought  to  be.  People 
would  talk  about  it,  they  would  praise  him,  they  would  congratu- 
late him.  He  repeated  in  a  loud  voice,  speaking  as  one  speaks 
when  one's  thoughts  are  very  much  troubled : 

"What  a  brute  the  fellow  was!" 

Then  he  sat  down  and  began  to  reflect.  He  must  find  seconds, 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Whom  should  he  choose?  He 
thought  over  those  men  of  his  acquaintance  who  had  the  best 
positions,  who  were  the  most  celebrated.  He  finally  selected 
the  Marquis  de  la  Tour-Noire,  and  the  Colonel  Bourdin,  a 
nobleman  and  a  soldier.  Very  good  indeed !  Their  names  would 
sound  well  in  the  papers.  He  perceived  that  he  was  thirsty, 
and  he  drank,  one  after  another,  three  glasses  of  water;  then  he 
began  again  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  He  felt  himself 
full  of  energy.  If  he  blustered  a  little,  if  he  showed  himself 
resolute  at  all  points,  if  he  demanded  rigorous  and  dangerous 
conditions,  if  he  insisted  on  a  serious  duel,  very  serious,  terrible, 
his  opponent  would  probably  withdraw  and  make  apologies. 

He  picked  up  the  card  which  he  had  pulled  out  of  his  pocket 
and  thrown  on  the  table,  and  he  reread  it  with  a  single  glance. 
He  had  already  done  so  at  the  cafe  and  in  the  cab,  by  the  glimmer 
of  every  street  lamp,  on  his  way  home.  "  Georges  Lamil,  51 
Rue  Moncey."     Nothing  more. 

He  examined  these  assembled  letters,  which  seemed  to  him 


472  .  A  COWARD 

mysterious,  and  full  of  a  confused  meaning.  Georges  Lamil? 
Who  was  this  man?  What  had  he  been  about?  Why  had  he 
stared  at  that  woman  in  such  a  way?  Was  it  not  revolting  that 
a  stranger,  an  unknown,  should  so  come  and  trouble  your  life, 
all  on  a  sudden,  simply  because  he  had  been  pleased  to  fix  his 
eyes  insolently  upon  a  woman  that  you  knew?  And  the  vis- 
count repeated  yet  again,  in  a  loud  voice: 

"What  a  brute!" 

Then  he  remained  motionless,  upright,  thinking,  his  look  ever 
planted  on  the  card.  A  rage  awoke  in  him  against  this  piece 
of  paper,  an  anger  full  of  hate  in  which  was  mixed  a  strange, 
uneasy  feeling.  It  was  stupid,  this  whole  affair!  He  took  a 
little  penknife  which  lay  open  to  his  hand,  and  pricked  it  into  the 
middle  of  the  printed  name,  as  if  he  had  poniarded  some  one. 

However,  they  must  fight!  He  considered  himself  as  indeed 
the  insulted  party.  And,  having  thus  the  right,  should  he  choose 
the  pistol  or  the  sword?  With  the  sword  he  risked  less;  but  with 
the  pistol  he  had  the  chance  of  making  his  adversary  withdraw. 
It  is  very  rare  that  a  duel  with  swords  proves  mortal,  a  mutual 
prudence  preventing  the  combatants  from  engaging  near 
enough  for  the  point  of  a  rapier  to  enter  very  deep.  With  the 
pistol  he  risked  his  life  seriously;  but  he  might  also  come  out  of 
the  affair  with  all  the  honors  of  the  situation,  and  without 
going  so  far  as  an  actual  meeting. 

He  said: 

" I  must  be  firm.    He  will  be  afraid." 

The  sound  of  his  voice  made  him  tremble,  and  he  looked  about 
him.  He  felt  himself  very  nervous.  He  drank  another  glass 
of  water,  then  began  to  undress  himself  to  go  to  bed. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  bed,  he  blew  out  the  light  and  shut  his 
eyes. 

He  thought: 

"I've  got  all  day  to-morrow  to  attend  to  my  affairs.  I'd 
better  sleep  first  so  as  to  be  calm." 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  473 

He  was  very  warm  under  the  bedclothes,  but  he  could  not 
manage  to  doze  off.  He  turned  and  twisted,  remained  five 
minutes  on  his  back,  then  placed  himself  on  his  left  side,  then 
rolled  over  to  his  right. 

He  was  still  thirsty.  He  got  up  again  to  drink.  Then  an 
anxiety  seized  him: 

"Shall  I  be  afraid?" 

Why  did  his  heart  fall  to  beating  so  madly  at  each  of  the 
well-known  noises  of  his  chamber?  When  the  clock  was  about 
to  strike,  the  little  grinding  sound  of  the  spring  which  stands 
erect  caused  him  to  give  a  start;  and  for  several  seconds  after 
that  he  was  obliged  to  open  his  mouth  to  breathe,  he  remained 
so  much  oppressed. 

He  set  himself  to  reasoning  with  himself  upon  the  possibility 
of  this  thing: 

"Shall  I  be  afraid?" 

No,  certainly  not,  he  would  not  be  afraid,  because  he  was 
resolute  to  go  to  the  end,  because  he  had  his  will  firmly  fixed 
to  fight  and  not  to  tremble.  But  he  felt  so  deeply  troubled 
that  he  asked  himself: 

"Can  a  man  be  afraid  in  spite  of  him?" 

And  this  doubt  invaded  him,  this  uneasiness,  this  dread.  If 
some  force  stronger  than  his  will,  if  some  commanding,  and  irre- 
sistible power  should  conquer  him,  what  would  happen?  Yes, 
what  could  happen?  He  should  certainly  appear  upon  the  field, 
since  he  willed  to  do  it.  But  if  he  trembled?  But  if  he  fainted? 
And  he  thought  of  his  situation,  of  his  reputation,  of  his  name. 

And  a  curious  necessity  seized  him  on  a  sudden  to  get  up 
again  and  look  at  himself  in  the  mirror.  He  relit  his  candle. 
When  he  perceived  his  face  reflected  in  the  polished  glass  he 
hardly  recognized  himself,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
never  seen  this  man  before.  His  eyes  appeared  enormous; 
and  he  was  pale,  surely  he  was  pale,  very  pale. 

He  remained  upright  before  the  mirror.    He  put  out  his 


474  A  COWARD 

tongue  as  if  to  test  the  state  of  his  health,  and  all  on  a  sudden 
this  thought  entered  into  him  after  the  fashion  of  a  bullet: 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I  shall  perhaps  be 
dead." 

And  his  heart  began  again  to  beat  furiously. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I  shall  perhaps  be 
dead.  This  person  before  me,  this  'I'  which  I  see  in  this  glass, 
will  exist  no  longer.  What!  here  I  am,  I  am  looking  at  myself, 
I  feel  myself  to  live,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  I  shall  be  laid 
to  rest  upon  this  couch,  dead,  my  eyes  shut,  cold,  inanimate, 
gone." 

He  turned  towards  his  bed  and  he  distinctly  saw  himself 
on  the  back  in  the  same  sheets  which  he  had  just  left.  He  had 
the  hollow  face  which  dead  men  have,  and  that  slackness  to  the 
hands  which  will  never  stir  more. 

So  he  grew  afraid  of  his  bed,  and,  in  order  not  to  look  at  it 
again,  he  passed  into  his  smoking-room.  He  took  a  cigar 
mechanically,  lit  it,  and  again  began  to  walk  the  room.  He  was 
cold;  he  went  towards  the  bell  to  wake  his  valet;  but  he  stopped, 
his  hand  lifted  towards  the  bell-rope: 

"That  fellow  will  see  that  I  am  afraid." 

And  he  did  not  ring,  he  made  the  fire  himself.  When  his 
hands  touched  anything  they  trembled  slightly,  with  a  nervous 
shaking.  His  head  wandered;  his  troubled  thoughts  became 
fugitive,  sudden,  melancholy;  an  intoxication  seized  on  his 
spirit  as  if  he  had  been  drunk. 

And  ceaselessly  he  asked  himself: 

"What  shall  I  do?    What  will  become  of  me?" 

His  whole  body  vibrated,  jerky  tremblings  ran  over  it;  he 
got  up,  and  approaching  the  window,  he  opened  the  curtains. 

The  day  was  coming,  a  day  of  summer.  The  rosy  sky  made 
rosy  the  city,  the  roofs,  and  the  walls.  A  great  fall  of  tenuous 
light,  like  a  caress  from  the  rising  sun,  enveloped  the  awakened 
world;  and,  with  this  glimmer,  a  hope,  gay,  rapid,  brutal,  seized 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  475 

on  the  heart  of  the  viscount!  Was  he  mad  to  let  himself  be  so 
struck  down  by  fear,  before  anything  had  even  been  decided, 
before  his  seconds  had  seen  those  of  this  Georges  Lamil,  before 
he  yet  knew  if  he  was  going  to  fight  at  all? 

He  made  his  toilet,  dressed  himself,  and  left  the  house  with 
a  firm  step. 

He  repeated   to  himself,  while  walking: 

"I  must  be  decided,  very  decided.  I  must  prove  that  I  am 
not  afraid." 

His  seconds,  the  marquis  and  the  colonel,  put  themselves  at 
his  disposition,  and  after  having  pressed  his  hands  energetically, 
discussed  the  conditions  of  the  meeting. 

The  colonel  asked : 

"You  want  a  serious  duel?" 

The  viscount  answered: 

"Very  serious." 

The  marquis  took  up  the  word. 

"You  insist  on  pistols?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  leave  us  free  to  settle  the  rest?" 

The' viscount  articulated  with  a  dry,  jerky  voice: 

"Twenty  paces,  firing  at  the  word,  lifting  the  arm  instead  of 
lowering  it.  Exchange  of  shots  until  some  one  is  badly 
wounded." 

The  colonel  declared,  in  a  satisfied  tone: 

"Those  are  excellent  conditions.  You  are  a  good  shot; 
the  chances  are  all  in  your  favor." 

And  they  separated.  The  viscount  returned  home  to  wait 
for  them.  His  agitation,  which  had  been  temporarily  calmed, 
was  now  increasing  with  every  moment.  He  felt  along  his 
arms,  along  his  legs,  in  his  chest,  a  kind  of  quivering,  a  kind  of 
continuous  vibration;  he  could  not  stay  in  one  place,  neither 
sitting  down  nor  standing  up.  He  had  no  longer  a  trace  of 
moisture    in    his   mouth,   and    he    made   at    every    instant    a 


476  A  COWARD 

noisy  movement  of  the  tongue  as  if  to  unglue  it  from  his 
palate. 

He  tried  to  take  his  breakfast,  but  he  could  not  eat.  Then 
he  thought  of  drinking  in  order  to  give  himself  courage,  and  had 
a  decanter  of  rum  brought  him,  from  which  he  gulped  down, 
one  after  the  other,  six  little  glasses. 

A  warmth,  like  a  burn,  seized  on  him.  It  was  followed  as 
soon  by  a  giddiness  of  the  soul.    He  thought: 

"I  know  the  way.    Now  it  will  go  all  right." 

But  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  emptied  the  decanter,  and 
his  state  of  agitation  was  become  again  intolerable.  He  felt 
a  wild  necessity  to  roll  upon  the  ground,  to  cry,  to  bite. 

Evening  fell. 

The  sound  of  the  door-bell  caused  him  such  a  feeling  of 
suffocation  that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  rise  to  meet  his 
seconds. 

He  did  not  even  dare  to  talk  to  them  any  longer  —  to  say 
"How  do  you  do?"  to  pronounce  a  single  word,  for  fear  lest 
they  divine  all  from  the  alteration  in  his  voice. 

The  colonel  said: 

"Everything  is  settled  according  to  the  conditions  which  you 
fixed.  Your  opponent  at  first  insisted  on  the  privileges  of  the 
offended  party,  but  he  yielded  almost  immediately,  and  has 
agreed  to  everything.     His  seconds  are  two  officers. 

The  viscount  said : 

"Thank  you." 

The  marquis  resumed: 

"Excuse  us  if  we  only  just  run  in  and  out,  but  we've  still 
a  thousand  things  to  do.  We  must  have  a  good  doctor,  because 
the  duel  is  not  to  stop  till  after  some  one  is  badly  hit,  and  you 
know  there 's  no  trifling  with  bullets.  A  place  must  be  appointed 
near  some  house  where  we  can  carry  the  wounded  one  of  the  two, 
if  it  is  necessary,  etc.;  it  will  take  us  quite  two  or  three  hours 
more." 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  477 

The  viscount  articulated  a  second  time: 

" Thank  you." 

The  colonel  asked: 

"You're  all  right?    You're  calm?" 

"Yes,  quite  calm,  thanks." 

The  two  men  retired. 

When  he  felt  himself  alone  again,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  going  mad.  His  servant  having  lit  the  lamps,  he  sat  down 
before  his  table  to  write  some  letters.  After  tracing  at  the 
top  of  a  page,  "This  is  my  Will,"  he  got  up  again  and  drew  off, 
feeling  incapable  of  putting  two  ideas  together,  of  taking  a  single 
resolution,  of  deciding  anything  at  all. 

And  so  he  was  going  to  fight  a  duel !  He  could  no  longer  escape 
that.  What  could  be  passing  within  him?  He  wanted  to  fight, 
he  had  that  intention  and  that  resolution  firmly  fixed;  and 
he  felt  very  plainly  that,  notwithstanding  all  the  effort  of  his 
mind  and  all  the  tension  of  his  will,  he  would  not  be  able  to  re- 
tain strength  enough  to  go  as  far  as  the  place  of  the  encounter. 
He  tried  to  fancy  the  combat,  his  own  attitude,  and  the  bearing 
of  his  adversary. 

From  time  to  time,  his  teeth  struck  against  one  another  in 
his  mouth  with  a  little  dry  noise.  He  tried  to  read,  and  took 
up  de  Chateauvillard's  duelling  code.     Then  he  asked  himself: 

"My  adversary,  has  he  frequented  the  shooting-galleries? 
Is  he  well  known?    What's  his  class?     How  can  I  find  out?" 

He  remembered  the  book  by  Baron  de  Vaux  upon  pistol- 
shooters,  and  he  searched  through  it  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
Georges  Lamil  was  not  mentioned.  But,  however,  if  the  man 
had  not  been  a  good  shot,  he  would  not  have  accepted  im- 
mediately that  dangerous  weapon  and  those  conditions,  which 
were  mortal. 

His  pistol-case  by  Gastinne  Renette  lay  on  a  little  round  table. 
As  he  passed  he  opened  it  and  took  out  one  of  the  pistols,  then 


478  A  COWARD 

placed  himself  as  if  to  shoot,  and  raised  his  arm ;  but  he  trembled 
from  head  to  foot,  and  the  barrel  shook  in  all  directions. 

Then  he  said: 

"It  is  impossible.     I  cannot  fight  like  this." 

At  the  end  of  the  barrel  he  regarded  that  little  hole,  black 
and  deep,  which  spits  out  death;  he  thought  of  dishonor,  of  the 
whispers  in  the  clubs,  of  the  laughter  in  the  drawing-rooms, 
of  the  disdain  of  women,  of  the  allusions  in  the  papers,  of  the 
insults  which  would  be  thrown  at  him  by  cowards. 

He  went  on  staring  at  the  pistol,  and  raising  the  hammer, 
he  suddenly  saw  a  priming  glitter  beneath  it  like  a  little  red 
flame.  The  pistol  had  been  left  loaded,  by  chance,  by  over- 
sight. And  he  experienced  from  that  a  confused  inexplicable 
joy. 

If  in  the  presence  of  the  other  he  had  not  the  calm  and  noble 
bearing  which  is  fit,  he  would  be  lost  forever.  He  would  be 
spotted,  marked  with  a  sign  of  infamy,  hunted  from  society. 
And  he  should  not  have  that  calm  and  bold  bearing;  he  knew 
it,  he  felt  it.  And  yet  he  was  really  brave,  because  he  wanted 
to  fight!  He  was  brave,  because — The  thought  which  just 
grazed  him  did  not  even  complete  itself  in  his  spirit,  but,  open- 
ing his  mouth  wide,  he  brusquely  thrust  the  pistol-barrel  into 
the  very  bottom  of  his  throat  and  pressed  upon  the  trigger.  .  .  . 

When  his  valet  ran  in,  attracted  by  the  report,  he  found  him 
dead,  on  his  back.  A  jet  of  blood  had  spattered  the  white 
paper  on  the  table  and  made  a  great  red  stain  below  the  four 
words : 

"This  is  my  Will." 


XXXIV.  BAZAROV'S  DUEL1 
Ivan  Turgenev 

f_Bazarov  is  a  young  Russian  student  of  advanced  scientific  ideas.  He  repre- 
sents the  pitiless  and  somewhat  crude  materialism  of  the  Nihilists  of  the  eighteen 
sixties.  Himself  the  son  of  a  peasant,  he  scorns  the  refinements  of  traditional  be- 
lief and  social  custom.  He  goes  to  visit  his  college  friend  Arkady  and  there  meets 
Arkady's  uncle,  Pavel  Petrovitch,  the  acme  of  aristocratic  elegance  in  manner  and 
of  ultra  conservatism  in  ideas.  To  him  Bazarov's  ideas,  indeed  his  very  presence, 
seems  a  piece  of  impudence.  Bazarov,  for  his  part,  views  Pavel  Petrovitch  as  an 
antique  survival.  The  older  man's  attitude  immediately  becomes  one  of  hostility; 
that  of  the  younger  man  one  of  amused  contempt.  When  finally  Pavel  Petrovitch 
sees  the  upstart  kiss  his  brother's  mistress,  Fenitchka,  he  enters  his  room  and 
challenges  him  to  a  duel  in  the  manner  described  in  the  present  extract.  J 

Two  hours  later  Pavel  Petrovitch  knocked  at  Bazarov's  door. 

"I  must  apologize  for  hindering  you  in  your  scientific  pur- 
suits," he  began,  seating  himself  on  a  chair  in  the  window, 
and  leaning  with  both  hands  on  a  handsome  walking-stick  with 
an  ivory  knob  (he  usually  walked  without  a  stick),  "but  I  am 
constrained  to  beg  you  to  spare  me  five  minutes  of  your  time 
...  no  more." 

"All  my  time  is  at  your  disposal,"  answered  Bazarov,  over 
whose  face  there  passed  a  quick  change  of  expression  directly 
Pavel  Petrovitch  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Five  minutes  will  be  enough  for  me.  I  have  come  to  put 
a  single  question  to  you." 

"A  question?     What  is  it  about?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  if  you  will  kindly  hear  me  out.  At  the 
commencement  of  your  stay  in  my  brother's  house,  before  I 
had  renounced  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  it  was  my 
fortune  to  hear  your  opinions  on  many  subjects;   but  so  far  as 

1  Reprinted  from  Fathers  and  Children  (translated  by  Constance  Garnett)  with 
the  kind  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 


480  BAZAROV'S  DUEL 

my  memory  serves,  neither  between  us,  nor  in  my  presence, 
was  the  subject  of  single  combats  and  duelling  in  general 
broached.  Allow  me  to  hear  what  are  your  views  on  that  sub- 
ject?" 

Bazarov,  who  had  risen  to  meet  Pavel  Petrovitch,  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  folded  his  arms. 

"My  view  is,"  he  said,  "that  from  the  theoretical  standpoint, 
duelling  is  absurd;  from  the  practical  standpoint,  now  —  it's 
quite  a  different  matter." 

"That  is,  you  mean  to  say,  if  I  understand  you  right,  that 
whatever  your  theoretical  views  on  duelling,  you  would  not  in 
practice  allow  yourself  to  be  insulted  without  demanding  satis- 
faction?" 

"You  have  guessed  my  meaning  absolutely.  " 

"  Very  good.  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  Your  words 
relieve  me  from  a  state  of  incertitude." 

"Of  uncertainty,  you  mean  to  say." 

"That  is  all  the  same;  I  express  myself  so  as  to  be  understood; 
I  .  .  .  am  not  a  seminary  rat.  Your  words  save  me  from  a 
rather  deplorable  necessity.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  fight 
you." 

Barazov  opened  his  eyes  wide.     "Me?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"But  what  for,  pray?" 

"I  could  explain  the  reason  to  you,"  began  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
"but  I  prefer  to  be  silent  about  it.  To  my  idea  your  presence 
here  is  superfluous;  I  cannot  endure  you;  I  despise  you;  and 
if  that  is  not  enough  for  you  ..." 

Pavel  Petrovitch's  eyes  glittered  .  .  .  Bazarov's  too  were 
flashing. 

"Very  good,"  he  assented.  "No  need  of  further  explanations. 
You  've  a  whim  to  try  your  chivalrous  spirit  upon  me.  I  might 
refuse  you  this  pleasure,  but  —  so  be  it!" 

"I  am  sensible  of  my  obligation  to  you,"  replied  Pavel  Petro- 


IVAN  TURGENEV  481 

vitch;  "and  may  reckon  then  on  your  accepting  my  challenge 
without  compelling  me  to  resort  to  violent  measures." 

"That  means,  speaking  without  metaphor,  to  that  stick?" 
Bazarov  remarked  cooly.  "That  is  precisely  correct.  It's 
quite  unnecessary  for  you  to  insult  me.  Indeed,  it  would  not 
be  a  perfectly  safe  proceeding.  You  can  remain  a  gentleman. 
...  I  accept  your  challenge,  too,  like  a  gentleman." 

"That  is  excellent,"  observed  Pavel  Petrovitch,  putting  his 
stick  in  the  corner.  "We  will  say  a  few  words  directly  about 
the  conditions  of  our  duel;  but  I  should  like  first  to  know 
whether  you  think  it  necessary  to  resort  to  the  formality  of 
a  trifling  dispute,  which  might  serve  as  a  pretext  for  my 
challenge?" 

"No;  it's  better  without  formalities." 

"  I  think  so  myself.  I  presume  it  is  also  out  of  place  to  go  into 
the  real  grounds  of  our  difference.  We  cannot  endure  one  an- 
other.   What  more  is  necessary?" 

"What  more,  indeed?"  repeated  Bazarov  ironically. 

"As  regards  the  conditions  of  the  meeting  itself,  seeing  that 
we  shall  have  no  seconds  —  for  where  could  we  get  them?" 

"Exactly  so;   where  could  we  get  them?" 

"Then  I  have  the  honor  to  lay  the  following  proposition  be- 
fore you:  The  combat  to  take  place  early  to-morrow,  at  six, 
let  us  say,  behind  the  copse,  with  pistols,  at  a  distance  of  ten 
paces.  .  .  ." 

"At  ten  paces?  that  will  do;  we  hate  one  another  at  that 
distance." 

"We  might  have  it  eight,"  remarked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

"We  might." 

"To  fire  twice;  and,  to  be  ready  for  any  result,  let  each  put 
a  letter  in  his  pocket,  in  which  he  accuses  himself  of  his  end." 

"Now,  that  I  don't  approve  of  at  all,"  observed  Bazarov. 
"There's  a  slight  flavor  of  the  French  novel  about  it,  something 
not  very  plausible." 


482  BAZAROV'S  DUEL 

"Perhaps.  You  will  agree,  however,  that  it  would  be  un- 
pleasant to  incur  a  suspicion  of  murder?" 

"I  agree  as  to  that.  But  there  is  a  means  or  avoiding  that 
painful  reproach.  We  shall  have  no  seconds,  but  we  can  have 
a  witness." 

"And  whom,  allow  me  to  inquire?" 

"Why,  Piotr." 

"What  Piotr?" 

"Your  brother's  valet.  He's  a  man  who  has  attained  to  the 
acme  of  contemporary  culture,  and  he  will  perform  his  part  with 
all  the  comilfo  {comme  ilfaut)  necessary  in  such  cases." 

"I  think  you  are  joking,  sir." 

"Not  at  all.  If  you  think  over  my  suggestion,  you  will  be 
convinced  that  it's  full  of  common-sense  and  simplicity.  You 
can't  hide  a  candle  under  a  bushel;  but  I'll  undertake  to 
prepare  Piotr  in  a  fitting  manner,  and  bring  him  on  to  the  field 
of  battle." 

"You  persist  in  jesting  still,"  Pavel  Petrovitch  declared, 
getting  up  from  his  chair.  "But  after  the  courteous  readiness 
you  have  shown  me,  I  have  no  right  to  pretend  to  lay  down.  .  .  . 
And  so,  everything  is  arranged.  ...  By  the  way,  perhaps  you 
have  no  pistols?" 

"How  should  I  have  pistols,  Pavel  Petrovitch?  I'm  not 
in  the  army." 

"In  that  case,  I  offer  you  mine.  You  may  rest  assured  that 
it's  five  years  now  since  I  shot  with  them." 

"That's  a  very  consoling  piece  of  news." 

Pavel  Petrovitch  took  up  his  stick.  .  .  .  "And  now,  my 
dear  sir,  it  only  remains  for  me  to  thank  you  and  to  leave  you 
to  your  studies.     I  have  the  honor  to  take  leave  of  you." 

"Till  we  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  again,  my  dear  sir," 
said  Bazarov,  conducting  his  visitor  to  the  door. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  went  out,  while  Bazarov  remained  standing 
a  minute  before  the  door,  and  suddenly  exclaimed,  "Pish,  well, 


IVAN  TURGENEV  483 

I'm  dashed!  how  fine,  and  how  foolish!  A  pretty  farce  we've 
been  through!  Like  trained  dogs  dancing  on  their  hind-paws. 
But  to  decline  was  out  of  the  question ;  why,  I  do  believe  he  'd 
have  struck  me,  and  then  .  .  ."  (Bazarov  turned  white  at  the 
very  thought;  all  his  pride  was  up  in  arms  at  once)  —  "then 
it  might  have  come  to  my  strangling  him  like  a  cat."  He  went 
back  to  his  miscroscope,  but  his  heart  was  beating,  and  the  com- 
posure necessary  for  taking  observations  had  disappeared. 
"He  caught  sight  of  us  to-day,"  he  thought;  "but  would  he 
really  act  like  this  on  his  brother's  account?  And  what  a  mighty 
matter  is  it  —  a  kiss?  There  must  be  something  else  in  it. 
Bah!  isn't  he  perhaps  in  love  with  her  himself?  To  be  sure, 
he's  in  love;  it's  as  clear  as  day.  What  a  complication!  It's 
a  nuisance!"  he  decided  at  last;  "It's  a  bad  job,  look  at  it 
which  way  you  will.  In  the  first  place,  to  risk  a  bullet  through 
one's  brains,  and  in  any  case  to  go  away.  ...  It's  a  bad  job, 
an  awfully  bad  job." 

The  day  passed  in  a  kind  of  peculiar  stillness  and  languor. 
Fenitchka  gave  no  sign  of  her  existence;  she  sat  in  her  little 
room  like  a  mouse  in  its  hole.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  a  care- 
worn air.  He  had  just  heard  that  blight  had  begun  to  appear 
in  his  wheat,  upon  which  he  had  in  particular  rested  his  hopes. 
Pavel  Petrovitch  overwhelmed  every  one,  even  Prokofitch, 
with  his  icy  courtesy.  Bazarov  began  a  letter  to  his  father, 
but  tore  it  up,  and  threw  it  under  the  table. 

"If  I  die,"  he  thought,  "they  will  find  it  out;  but  I'm  not 
going  to  die.  No,  I  shall  struggle  along  in  this  world  a  good 
while  yet."  He  gave  Piotr  orders  to  come  to  him  on  important 
business  the  next  morning  directly  it  was  light.  Piotr  imagined 
that  he  wanted  to  take  him  to  Petersburg  with  him.  Bazarov 
went  late  to  bed,  and  all  night  long  he  was  harassed  by  dis- 
ordered dreams.  .  .  .  Piotr  waked  him  up  at  four  o'clock; 
he  dressed  at  once,  and  went  out  with  him. 

It  was  a  lovely,  fresh  morning;    tiny  flecked  clouds  hovered 


484  BAZAROV'S  DUEL 

overhead  in  little  curls  of  foam  on  the  pale  clear  blue;  a  fine 
dew  lay  in  drops  on  the  leaves  and  grass,  and  sparkled  like  silver 
on  the  spiders'  webs;  the  damp,  dark  earth  seemed  still  to  keep 
traces  of  the  rosy  dawn;  from  the  whole  sky  the  songs  of  larks 
came  pouring  in  showers.  Bazarov  walked  as  far  as  the  copse, 
sat  down  in  the  shade  at  its  edge,  and  only  then  disclosed  to 
Piotr  the  nature  of  the  service  he  expected  of  him.  The  re- 
fined valet  was  mortally  alarmed;  but  Bazarov  soothed  him 
by  the  assurance  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  but 
stand  at  a  distance  and  look  on,  and  that  he  would  not  incur 
any  sort  of  responsibility.  "And  meantime,"  he  added,  "only 
think  what  an  important  part  you  have  to  play!"  Piotr  threw 
up  his  hands,  looked  down,  and  leaned  against  a  birch-tree, 
looking  green  with  terror. 

The  road  from  Maryino  skirted  the  copse;  a  light  dust 
lay  on  it,  untouched  by  wheel  or  foot  since  the  previous  day. 
Bazarov  unconsciously  stared  along  this  road,  picked  and  gnawed 
a  blade  of  grass,  while  he  kept  repeating  to  himself,  "What  a 
piece  of  foolery!"  The  chill  of  the  early  morning  made  him 
shiver  twice.  .  .  .  Piotr  looked  at  him  dejectedly,  but  Bazarov 
only  smiled;  he  was  not  afraid. 

The  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  was  heard  along  the  road.  .  .  . 
A  peasant  came  into  sight  from  behind  the  trees.  He  was  driv- 
ing before  him  two  horses  hobbled  together,  and  as  he  passed 
Bazarov  he  looked  at  him  rather  strangely,  without  touching 
his  cap,  which  it  was  easy  to  see  disturbed  Piotr,  as  an  unlucky 
omen.  "There's  some  one  else  up  early  too,"  thought  Bazarov; 
"but  he  at  least  has  got  up  for  work,  while  we  .  .  .  ." 

"'Fancy  the  gentleman's  coming,"  Piotr  faltered  suddenly. 

Bazarov  raised  his  head  and  saw  Pavel  Petrovitch.  Dressed 
in  a  light  check  jacket  and  snow-white  trousers,  he  was  walking 
rapidly  along  the  road;  under  his  arm  he  carried  a  box  wrapped 
up  in  green  cloth. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  believe  I  have  kept  you  waiting," 


IVAN  TURGENEV  485 

he  observed,  bowing  first  to  Bazarov,  then  to  Piotr,  whom  he 
treated  respectfully  at  that  instant  as  representing  something 
in  the  nature  of  a  second.  "I  was  unwilling  to  wake  my 
man." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  answered  Bazarov;  "we've  only  just 
arrived  ourselves." 

"Ah!  so  much  the  better!"  Pavel  Petrovitch  took  a  look  round. 
"There's  no  one  in  sight;  no  one  hinders  us.    We  can  proceed?" 

"Let  us  proceed." 

"You  do  not,  I  presume,  desire  any  fresh  explanations?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Would  you  like  to  load?"  inquired  Pavel  Petrovitch,  taking 
the  pistols  out  of  the  box. 

"No;  you  load,  and  I  will  measure  out  the  paces.  My 
legs  are  longer,"  added  Bazarov  with  a  smile.    "One,  two,  three." 

"Yevgeny  Vassilyevitch,"  Piotr  faltered  with  an  effort  (he 
was  shaking  as  though  he  were  in  a  fever),  "say  what  you  like, 
I  am  going  farther  off." 

"Four  .  .  .  five.  .  .  .  Good.  Move  away,  my  good  fellow, 
move  away;  you  may  get  behind  a  tree  even,  and  stop  up  your 
ears,  only  don't  shut  your  eyes;  and  if  any  one  falls,  run  and  pick 
him  up.  Six.  .  .  seven.  .  .  eight.  .  .  "  Bazarov  stopped.  "Is 
that  enough?"  he  said,  turning  to  Pavel  Petrovitch;  "or  shall 
I  add  two  paces  more?" 

"As  you  like,"  replied  the  latter,  pressing  down  the  second 
bullet. 

"Well,  we'll  make  it  two  paces  more."  Bazarov  drew  a 
line  on  the  ground  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.  "There's  the 
barrier  then.  By  the  way,  how  many  paces  may  each  of  us  go 
back  from  the  barrier?  That's  an  important  question  too. 
That  point  was  not  discussed  yesterday." 

"I  imagine,  ten,"  replied  Pavel  Petrovitch,  handing  Bazarov 
both  pistols.     "  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  choose?" 

"I  will  be  so  good.    But,  Pavel  Petrovitch,  you  must  admit 


486  BAZAROV'S  DUEL 

our  combat  is  singular  to  the  point  of  absurdity.  Only  look  at 
the  countenance  of  our  second." 

"You  are  disposed  to  laugh  at  everything,"  answered  Pavel 
Petrovitch.  "I  acknowledge  the  strangeness  of  our  duel, 
but  I  think  it  my  duty  to  warn  you  that  I  intend  to  fight  seri- 
ously.    A  bon  entendeur,  salut/" 

"Oh!  I  don't  doubt  that  we've  made  up  our  minds  to  make 
away  with  each  other;  but  why  not  laugh  too  and  unite  utile 
dulci?    You  talk  to  me  in  French,  while  I  talk  to  you  in  Latin." 

"I  am  going  to  fight  in  earnest,"  repeated  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
and  he  walked  off  to  his  place.  Bazarov  on  his  side  counted  off 
ten  paces  from  the  barrier,  and  stood  still. 

"Are  you  ready?"  asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

"Perfectly." 

"We  can  approach  one  another." 

Barazov  moved  slowly  forward,  and  Pavel  Petrovitch,  his 
left  hand  thrust  in  his  pocket,  walked  towards  him,  gradually 
raising  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol.  .  .  .  "He's  aiming  straight  at 
my  nose,"  thought  Bazarov,  "and  doesn't  he  blink  down  it 
carefully,  the  ruffian!  Not  an  agreeable  sensation  though. 
I'm  going  to  look  at  his  watch  chain." 

Something  whizzed  sharply  by  his  very  ear,  and  at  the  same 
instant  there  was  the  sound  of  a  shot.  "I  heard  it,  so  it  must  be 
all  right,"  had  time  to  flash  through  Bazarov 's  brain.  He  took 
one  more  step,  and  without  taking  aim,  pressed  the  spring. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  gave  a  slight  start,  and  clutched  at  his  thigh. 
A  stream  of  blood  began  to  trickle  down  his  white  trousers. 

Bazarov  flung  aside  the  pistol,  and  went  up  to  his  antagonist. 
"Are  you  wounded?"  he  said. 

"You  had  the  right  to  call  me  up  to  the  barrier,"  said  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  "but  that's  of  no  consequence.  According  to  our 
agreement,  each  of  us  has  the  right  to  one  more  shot." 

"All  right,  but,  excuse  me,  that'll  do  another  time,"  answered 
Bazarov,  catching  hold  of  Pavel  Petrovitch,  who  was  beginning 


IVAN  TURGENEV  487 

to  turn  pale.  "Now,  I'm  not  a  duellist,  but  a  doctor,  and  I 
must  have  a  look  at  your  wound  before  anything  else.  Piotr! 
come  here,  Piotr!  where  have  you  got  to?" 

"That's  all  nonsense.  ...  I  need  no  one's  aid,"  Pavel 
Petrovitch  declared  jerkily,  "and  ...  we  must  . '.  .  again 
..."  He  tried  to  pull  at  his  moustaches,  but  his  hand  failed 
him,  his  eyes  grew  dim,  and  he  lost  consciousness. 

' '  Here 's  a  pretty  pass !  A  fainting  fit !  What  next ! ' '  Baza- 
rov  cried  unconsciously,  as  he  laid  Pavel  Petrovitch  on  the 
grass.  "Let's  have  a  look  at  what's  wrong."  He  pulled  out 
a  handkerchief,  wiped  away  the  blood,  and  began  feeling  round 
the  wound.  .  .  .  "The  bone's  not  touched,"  he  muttered 
through  his  teeth;  "the  ball  didn't  go  deep;  one  muscle,  vastus 
externus,  grazed.  He'll  be  dancing  about  in  three  weeks!  .  .  . 
And  to  faint!  Oh,  these  nervous  people,  how  I  hate  them! 
My  word,  what  a  delicate  skin!" 

"Is  he  killed?"  the  quaking  voice  of  Piotr  came  rustling 
behind  his  back. 

Bazarov  looked  round.  "Go  for  some  water  as  quick  as  you 
can,  my  good  fellow,  and  he'll  outlive  us  yet." 

But  the  modern  servant  seemed  not  to  understand  his  words, 
and  he  did  not  stir.  Pavel  Petrovitch  slowly  opened  his  eyes. 
"He  will  die!"  whispered  Piotr,  and  he  began  crossing  himself. 

"You  are  right.  .  .  .  What  an  imbecile  countenance!" 
remarked  the  wounded  gentleman  with  a  forced  smile. 

"Well,  go  for  the  water,  damn  you!"  shouted  Bazarov. 

"No  need.  ...  It  was  a  momentary  vertigo.  .  .  .  Help 
me  to  sit  up  .  .  .  there,  that 's  right.  ...  I  only  need  something 
to  bind  up  this  scratch,  and  I  can  reach  home  on  foot,  or  else 
you  can  send  a  droshky  for  me.  The  duel,  if  you  are  willing, 
shall  not  be  renewed.  You  have  behaved  honorably  ...  to- 
day, to-day  —  observe." 

"There's  no  need  to  recall  the  past,"  rejoined  Bazarov; 
"and  as  regards  the  future,  it's  not  worth  while  for  you  to  trouble 


488  BAZAROV'S  DUEL 

your  head  about  that  either,  for  I  intend  being  off  without 
delay.  Let  me  bind  up  your  leg  now;  your  wound's  not 
serious,  but  it's  always  best  to  stop  bleeding.  But  first  I  must 
bring  this  corpse  to  his  senses." 

Bazarov  shook  Piotr  by  the  collar,  and  sent  him  for  a  droshky. 

"Mind  you  don't  frighten  my  brother,"  Pavel  Petrovitch 
said  to  him;    " don't  dream  of  informing  him." 

Piotr  flew  off;  and  while  he  was  running  for  a  droshky,  the 
two  antagonists  sat  on  the  ground  and  said  nothing.  Pavel 
Petrovitch  tried  not  to  look  at  Bazarov;  he  did  not  want  to  be 
reconciled  to  him  in  any  case;  he  was  ashamed  of  his  own 
haughtiness,  of  his  failure;  he  was  ashamed  of  the  whole  position 
he  had  brought  about,  even  while  he  felt  it  could  not  have  ended 
in  a  more  favorable  manner.  "At  any  rate,  there  will  be  no 
scandal,"  he  consoled  himself  by  reflecting,  "and  for  that  I 
am  thankful."  The  silence  was  prolonged,  a  silence  distressing 
and  awkward.  Both  of  them  were  ill  at  ease.  Each  was  con- 
scious that  the  other  understood  him.  That  is  pleasant  to 
friends,  and  always  very  unpleasant  to  those  who  are  not 
friends,  especially  when  it  is  impossible  either  to  have  things 
out  or  to  separate. 

"Haven't  I  bound  up  your  leg  too  tight?"  inquired  Bazarov 
at  last. 

"No,  not  at  all;  it's  capital,"  answered  Pavel  Petrovitch; 
after  a  brief  pause,  he  added,  "There's  no  deceiving  my 
brother;    we  shall  have  to  tell  him  we  quarrelled  over  politics." 

"Very  good,"  assented  Bazarov.  "You  can  say  I  insulted 
all  anglomaniacs." 

"That  will  do  capitally.  What  do  you  imagine  that  man 
thinks  of  us  now?"  continued  Pavel  Petrovitch,  pointing  to  the 
same  peasant,  who  had  driven  the  hobbled  horses  past  Bazarov 
a  few  minutes  before  the  duel,  and  going  back  again  along  the 
road,  took  off  his  cap  at  the  sight  of  the  "gentlefolk." 

"Who  can  tell!"  answered  Bazarov;    "it's  quite  likely  he 


IVAN  TURGENEV  489 

thinks  nothing.  The  Russian  peasant  is  that  mysterious  un- 
known about  whom  Mrs.  Radcliffe  used  to  talk  so  much.  Who 
is  to  understand  him!   He  doesn't  understand  himself!" 

"Ah!  so  that's  your  idea!"  Pavel  Petrovitch  began;  and 
suddenly  he  cried,  "Look  what  your  fool  of  a  Piotr  has  done! 
Here's  my  brother  galloping  up  to  us!" 

Bazarov  turned  round  and  saw  the  pale  face  of  Nikolai 
Petrovitch,  who  was  sitting  in  the  droshky.  He  jumped  out 
of  it  before  it  had  stopped,  and  rushed  up  to  his  brother. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  said  in  an  agitated  voice..  "Yev- 
geny Vassilyitch,  pray,  what  is  this?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Pavel  Petrovitch;  "they  have  alarmed 
you  for  nothing.  I  had  a  little  dispute  with  Mr.  Bazarov, 
and  I  have  had  to  pay  for  it  a  little." 

"But  what  was  it  all  about,  mercy  on  us!" 

"How  can  I  tell  you?  Mr.  Bazarov  alluded  disrespectfully 
to  Sir  Robert  Peel.  I  must  hasten  to  add  that  I  am  the  only 
person  to  blame  in  all  this,  while  Mr.  Bazarov  has  behaved 
most  honorably.     I  called  him  out." 

"But  you're  covered  with  blood,  good  Heavens!" 

"Well,  did  you  suppose  I  had  water  in  my  veins?  But  this 
blood-letting  is  positively  beneficial  to  me.  Isn't  that  so, 
doctor?  Help  me  to  get  into  the  droshky,  and  don't  give  way 
to  melancholy.  I  shall  be  quite  well  to-morrow.  That's  it; 
capital.     Drive  on,  coachman." 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  walked  after  the  droshky;  Bazarov  was 
remaining  where  he  was.  .  .  . 

"I  must  ask  you  to  look  after  my  brother,"  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch said  to  him,  "till  we  get  another  doctor  from  the  town." 

Bazarov  nodded  his  head  without  speaking.  In  an  hour's 
time  Pavel  Petrovitch  was  already  lying  in  bed  with  a 
skilfully  bandaged  leg. 


XXXV.  AN  UNFINISHED   STORY1 
O.  Henry 

[This  story  is  discussed  from  the  point  of  view  of  its  moral  issue  in  the  introduc- 
tion, pages  3 98-3 gg.  The  writer's  "problem"  of  how  to  see  a  story  in  life  is  also 
particularly  well  illustrated  here.  We  have  all  thought  and  read  and  have  prob- 
ably known  personally  of  the  temptations  to  which  lonely,  underpaid  shop-girls  in 
our  cities  are  subjected.  We  have  all  seen  the  kind  of  life  they  lead  before  our 
eyes,  and  we  can  guess  at  the  dullness  of  their  evenings,  if  they  have  no  money  to 
spare  and  no  friends,  in  a  great  city.  So  we  recognize  that  a  story,  expressing  the 
casual,  yet  recurrent,  observation  of  so  many  of  us  would  have  a  strong  appeal. 
Any  writer  has,  in  this  case,  seen  the  life  he  wishes  to  write  about.  How  will  he  see 
it  as  a  story? 

The  rule  here  is:  do  not  go  about  the  bush,  begin  with  the  thing  you  have  in 
mind  — ■  the  shop,  the  uniform,  uninteresting  daily  round,  the  poor,  easily  flattered 
girl,  anxious  for  a  bit  of  cheerfulness  as  the  right  of  her  youth,  the  date  with  a 
"swell."  Ask  yourself  now  what  Dulcie's  life  is  really  like  — what  are  her  expenses, 
where  does  she  live,  where  does  she  eat,  what  are  her  actual  (not  her  possible) 
pleasures,  what  influences  for  good  may  probably  be  among  them?  Besides 
this,  what  is  there  in  O.  Henry's  masterpiece  ?  Of  course  you  may  not  be 
so  lucky  as  to  think  of  Lord  Kitchener's  strong-faced  picture  on  her  bureau 
as  the  thing  that  will  save  her,  this  time,  at  all  events;  but  if  you  have 
observed  Dulcie's  life  thoroughly  enough ,  you  will  still  have  a  story.  A  symbol 
of  the  good  influences  of  the  world  will  surely  come  to  you,  though  probably 
not  with  the  stroke  of  genius  that  selected  Lord  Kitchener's  picture,  and  then 
left  the  story  "unfinished. "2 

We  no  longer  groan  and  heap  ashes  upon  our  heads  when 
the  flames  of  Tophet  are  mentioned.  For,  even  the  preachers 
have  begun  to  tell  us  that  God  is  radium,  or  ether  or  some 
scientific  compound,  and  that  the  worst  we  wicked  ones  may 
expect  is  a  chemical  reaction.  This  is  a  pleasing  hypothesis; 
but  there  lingers  yet  some  of  the  old,  goodly  terror  of  orthodoxy. 

There  are  but  two  subjects  upon  which  one  may  discourse 
with  a  free  imagination,  and  without  the  possibility  of  being 
controverted.     You  may  talk  of  your  dreams;    and  you  may 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Four  Million  by  special  arrangement  with  Doubleday, 
Page  and  Company. 


O.   HENRY  491 

tell  what  you  heard  a  parrot  say.  Both  Morpheus  and  the  bird 
are  incompetent  witnesses;  and  your  listener  dare  not  attack 
your  recital.  The  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision,  then,  shall  furnish 
my  theme  —  chosen  with  apologies  and  regrets  instead  of  the 
more  limited  field  of  pretty  Polly's  small  talk. 

I  had  a  dream  that  was  so  far  removed  from  the  higher 
criticism  that  it  had  to  do  with  the  ancient,  respectable,  and 
lamented  bar-of-judgment  theory. 

Gabriel  had  played  his  trump;  and  those  of  us  who  could  not 
follow  suit  were  arraigned  for  examination.  I  noticed  at  one 
side  a  gathering  of  professional  bondsmen  in  solemn  black  and 
collars  that  buttoned  behind;  but  it  seemed  there  was  some 
trouble  about  their  real  estate  titles;  and  they  did  not  appear 
to  be  getting  any  of  us  out. 

A  fly  cop  —  an  angel  policeman  —  flew  over  to  me  and  took 
me  by  the  left  wing.  Near  at  hand  was  a  group  of  very  pros- 
perous-looking spirits  arraigned  for  judgment. 

"Do  you  belong  with  that  bunch?"  the  policeman  asked. 

"Who  are  they?"  was  my  answer. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "they  are  —  " 

But  this  irrelevant  stuff  is  taking  up  space  that  the  story  should 
occupy. 

Dulcie  worked  in  a  department  store.  She  sold  Hamburg 
edging,  or  stuffed  peppers,  or  automobiles,  or  other  little  trinkets 
such  as  they  keep  in  department  stores.  Of  what  she  earned, 
Dulcie  received  six  dollars  per  week.  The  remainder  was 
credited  to  her  and  debited  to  somebody  else's  account  in  the 

ledger  kept  by  G .     Oh,  primal  energy,  you  say,  Reverend 

Doctor  —  Well  then,  in  the  Ledger  of  Primal  Energy. 

During  her  first  year  in  the  store,  Dulcie  was  paid  five  dollars 
per  week.  It  would  be  instructive  to  know  how  she  lived  on 
that  amount.  Don't  care?  Very  well;  probably  you  are 
interested  in  larger  amounts.  Six  dollars  is  a  larger  amount. 
I  will  tell  you  how  she  lived  on  six  dollars  per  week. 


492  AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

One  afternoon  at  six,  when  Dulcie  was  sticking  her  hat-pin 
within  an  eighth  of  an  inch  of  her  medulla  oblongata,  she  said  to 
her  chum,  Sadie  —  the  girl  that  waits  on  you  with  her  left  side: 

"Say,  Sade,  I  made  a  date  for  dinner  this  evening  with  Piggy." 

"You  never  did!"  exclaimed  Sadie  admiringly.  "  Well,  ain't 
you  the  lucky  one?  Piggy's  an  awful  swell;  and  he  always 
takes  a  girl  to  swell  places.  He  took  Blanche  up  to  the  Hoffman 
House  one  evening,  where  they  have  swell  music,  and  you  see 
a  lot  of  swells.     You  '11  have  a  swell  time,  Dulcie." 

Dulcie  hurried  homeward.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  and  her 
cheeks  showed  the  delicate  pink  of  life's  —  real  life's  —  ap- 
proaching dawn.  It  was  Friday;  and  she  had  fifty  cents  left 
of  her  last  week's  wages. 

The  streets  were  filled  with  the  rush-hour  floods  of  people. 
The  electric  lights  of  Broadway  were  glowing  —  calling  moths 
from  miles,  from  leagues,  from  hundreds  of  leagues  out  of  dark- 
ness around  to  come  in  and  attend  the  singeing  school.  Men  in 
accurate  clothes,  with  faces  like  those  carved  on  cherry  stones 
by  the  old  salts  in  sailors'  homes,  turned  and  stared  at  Dulcie 
as  she  sped,  unheeding,  past  them.  Manhattan,  the  night- 
blooming  cereus,  was  beginning  to  unfold  its  dead-white,  heavy- 
odored  petals. 

Dulcie  stopped  in  a  store  where  goods  were  cheap  and  bought 
an  imitation  lace  collar  with  her  fifty  cents.  That  money  was 
to  have  been  spent  otherwise  —  fifteen  cents  for  supper,  ten 
cents  for  breakfast,  ten  cents  for  lunch.  Another  dime  was  to 
be  added  to  her  small  store  of  savings;  and  five  cents  was  to  be 
squandered  for  licorice  drops  —  the  kind  that  made  your  cheek 
look  like  the  toothache,  and  last  as  long.  The  licorice  was  an 
extravagance  —  almost  a  carouse  —  but  what  is  life  without 
pleasures? 

Dulcie  lived  in  a  furnished  room.  There  is  this  difference 
between  a  furnished  room  and  a  boarding-house.  In  a  furnished 
room,  other  people  do  not  know  it  when  you  go  hungry. 


O.   HENRY  493 

Dulcie  went  up  to  her  room  —  the  third  floor  back  in  a  West 
Side  brownstone-front.  She  lit  the  gas.  Scientists  tell  us  that 
the  diamond  is  the  hardest  substance  known.  Their  mistake. 
Landladies  know  of  a  compound  beside  which  the  diamond  is  as 
putty.  They  pack  it  in  the  tips  of  gas-burners;  and  one  may 
stand  on  a  chair  and  dig  at  it  in  vain  until  one's  fingers  are 
pink  and  bruised.  A  hairpin  will  not  remove  it;  therefore  let 
us  call  it  immovable.  So  Dulcie  lit  the  gas.  In  its  one-fourth- 
candle-power  glow  we  will  observe  the  room. 

Couch-bed,  dresser,  table,  washstand,  chair  —  of  this  much 
the  landlady  was  guilty.  The  rest  was  Dulcie's.  On  the  dresser 
were  her  treasures  —  a  gilt  china  vase  presented  to  her  by  Sadie, 
a  calendar  issued  by  a  pickle  works,  a  book  on  the  divination 
of  dreams,  some  rice  powder  in  a  glass  dish,  and  a  cluster  of 
artifical  cherries  tied  with  a  pink  ribbon. 

Against  the  wrinkly  mirror  stood  pictures  of  General  Kitch- 
ener, William  Muldoon,  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  and 
Benvenuto  Cellini.  Against  one  wall  was  a  plaster  of  Paris 
plaque  of  an  O'Callahan  in  a  Roman  helmet.  Near  it  was  a 
violent  oleograph  of  a  lemon-colored  child  assaulting  an  in- 
flammatory butterfly.  This  was  Dulcie's  final  judgment  in 
art;  but  it  had  never  been  upset.  Her  rest  had  never  been 
disturbed  by  whispers  of  stolen  copes;  no  critic  had  elevated 
his  eyebrows  at  her  infantile  entomologist. 

Piggy  was  to  call  for  her  at  seven.  While  she  swiftly  makes 
ready,  let  us  discreetly  face  the  other  way  and  gossip. 

For  the  room,  Dulcie  paid  two  dollars  per  week.  On  week- 
days her  breakfast  cost  ten  cents;  she  made  coffee  and  cooked 
an  egg  over  the  gaslight  while  she  was  dressing.  On  Sunday 
mornings  she  feasted  royally  on  veal  chops  and  pineapple 
fritters  at  "Billy's"  restaurant,  at  a  cost  of  twenty-five  cents 
—  and  tipped  the  waitress  ten  cents.  New  York  presents  so 
many  temptations  for  one  to  run  into  extravagance.  She  had 
her  lunches  in  the  department-store  restaurant  at  a  cost  of 


494  AN  UNFINISHED   STORY 

sixty  cents  for  the  week ;  dinners  were  $i  .05.  The  evening  papers 
—  show  me  a  New  Yorker  going  without  his  daily  paper!  — 
came  to  six  cents;  and  two  Sunday  papers  —  one  for  the  per- 
sonal column  and  the  other  to  read  —  were  ten  cents.  The 
total  amounts  to  $4.76.     Now,  one  has  to  buy  clothes,  and  — 

I  give  it  up.  I  hear  of  wonderful  bargains  in  fabrics,  and 
of  miracles  performed  with  needle  and  thread;  but  I  am  in 
doubt.  I  hold  my  pen  poised  in  vain  when  I  would  add  to 
Dulcie  's  life  some  of  those  joys  that  belong  to  woman  by  virtue 
of  all  the  unwritten,  sacred,  natural,  inactive  ordinances  of  the 
equity  of  heaven.  Twice  she  had  been  to  Coney  Island  and  had 
ridden  the  hobby-horses.  'Tis  a  weary  thing  to  count  your 
pleasures  by  summers  instead  of  by  hours. 

Piggy  needs  but  a  word.  When  the  girls  named  him,  an 
undeserving  stigma  was  cast  upon  the  noble  family  of  swine. 
The  words-of-three-letters  lesson  in  the  old  blue  spelling  book 
begins  with  Piggy's  biography.  He  was  fat;  he  had  the  soul  of 
a  rat,  the  habits  of  a  bat,  and  the  magnanimity  of  a  cat.  .  .  . 
He  wore  expensive  clothes,  and  was  a  connoisseur  in  starvation. 
He  could  look  at  a  shop-girl  and  tell  you  to  an  hour  how  long 
it  had  been  since  she  had  eaten  anything  more  nourishing  than 
marshmallows  and  tea.  He  hung  about  the  shopping  districts, 
and  prowled  around  in  department  stores  with  his  invitations 
to  dinner.  Men  who  escort  dogs  upon  the  streets  at  the  end  of 
a  string  look  down  upon  him.  He  is  a  type;  I  can  dwell  upon 
him  no  longer;  my  pen  is  not  the  kind  intended  for  him;  I  am 
no  carpenter. 

At  ten  minutes  to  seven  Dulcie  was  ready.  She  looked  at 
herself  in  the  wrinkly  mirror.  The  reflection  was  satisfactory. 
The  dark  blue  dress,  fitting  without  a  wrinkle,  the  hat  with  its 
jaunty  black  feather,  the  but-slightly-soiled  gloves  —  all  repre- 
senting self-denial,  even  of  food  itself  —  were  vastly  becoming. 

Dulcie  forgot  everything  else  for  a  moment  except  that  she 
was  beautiful,  and  that  life  was  about  to  lift  a  corner  of  its 


O.   HENRY 


495 


mysterious  veil  for  her  to  observe  its  wonders.  No  gentleman 
had  ever  asked  her  out  before.  Now  she  was  going  for  a  brief 
moment  into  the  glitter  and  exalted  show. 

The  girls  said  that  Piggy  was  a  "spender."  There  would  be 
a  grand  dinner,  and  music,  and  splendidly  dressed  ladies  to  look 
at,  and  things  to  eat  that  strangely  twisted  the  girls'  jaws  when 
they  tried  to  tell  about  them.  No  doubt  she  would  be  asked 
out  again. 

There  was  a  blue  pongee  suit  in  a  window  that  she  knew  — 
by  saving  twenty  cents  a  week  instead  of  ten,  in  —  let 's  see  — 
Oh,  it  would  run  into  years!  But  there  was  a  second-hand 
store  in  Seventh  Avenue  where  — 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  Dulcie  opened  it.  The 
landlady  stood  there  with  a  spurious  smile,  sniffing  for  cooking 
by  stolen  gas. 

"A  gentleman's  downstairs  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "Name  is 
Mr.  Wiggins." 

By  such  epithet  was  Piggy  known  to  unfortunate  ones  who 
had  to  take  him  seriously. 

Dulcie  turned  to  the  dresser  to  get  her  handkerchief;  and 
then  she  stopped  still,  and  bit  her  underlip  hard.  While  looking 
in  her  mirror  she  had  seen  fairyland  and  herself,  a  princess, 
just  awakening  from  a  long  slumber.  She  had  forgotten  one 
that  was  watching  her  with  sad,  beautiful,  stern  eyes  —  the  only 
one  there  was  to  approve  or  condemn  what  she  did.  Straight 
and  slender  and  tall,  with  a  look  of  sorrowful  reproach  on  his 
handsome,  melancholy  face,  General  Kitchener  fixed  his  won- 
derful eyes  on  her  out  of  his  gilt  photograph  frame  on  the  dresser. 

Dulcie  turned  like  an  automatic  doll  to  the  landlady. 

"Tell  him  I  can't  go,"  she  said  dully.  "Tell  him  I'm  sick, 
or  something.     Tell  him  I 'm  not  going  out." 

After  the  door  was  closed  and  locked,  Dulcie  fell  upon  her  bed, 
crushing  her  black  tip,  and  cried  for  ten  minutes.  General 
Kitchener  was  her  only  friend.     He  was  Dulcie's  ideal  of  a 


496  AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

gallant  knight.  He  looked  as  if  he  might  have  a  secret  sorrow, 
and  his  wonderful  moustache  was  a  dream,  and  she  was  a  little 
afraid  of  that  stern  yet  tender  look  in  his  eyes.  She  used  to  have 
little  fancies  that  he  would  call  at  the  house  sometime,  and  ask 
for  her,  with  his  sword  clanking  against  his  high  boots.  Once, 
when  a  boy  was  rattling  a  piece  of  chain  against  a  lamp-post 
she  had  opened  the  window  and  looked  out.  But  there  was  no 
use.  She  knew  that  General  Kitchener  was  away  over  in  Japan, 
leading  his  army  against  the  savage  Turks;  and  he  would  never 
step  out  of  his  gilt  frame  for  her.  Yet  one  look  from  him  had 
vanquished  Piggy  that  night.     Yes,  for  that  night. 

When  her  cry  was  over  Dulcie  got  up  and  took  off  her  best 
dress,  and  put  on  her  old  blue  kimono.  She  wanted  no  dinner. 
She  sang  two  verses  of  "Sammy."  Then  she  became  intensely 
interested  in  a  little  red  speck  on  the  side  of  her  nose.  And 
after  that  was  attended  to,  she  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  rickety 
table,  and  told  her  fortune  with  an  old  deck  of  cards. 

"The  horrid,  impudent  thing!"  she  said  aloud.  "And  I 
never  gave  him  a  word  or  a  look  to  make  him  think  it!" 

At  nine  o'clock  Dulcie  took  a  tin  box  of  crackers  and  a  little 
pot  of  raspberry  jam  out  of  her  trunk,  and  had  a  feast.  She 
offered  General  Kitchener  some  jam  on  a  cracker;  but  he  only 
looked  at  her  as  the  sphinx  would  have  looked  at  a  butterfly  — 
if  there  are  butterflies  in  the  desert. 

"Don't  eat  it  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Dulcie.  "And 
don't  put  on  so  many  airs  and  scold  so  with  your  eyes.  I  wonder 
if  you  'd  be  so  superior  and  snippy  if  you  had  to  live  on  six  dollars 
a  week." 

It  was  not  a  good  sign  for  Dulcie  to  be  rude  to  General 
Kitchener.  And  then  she  turned  Benvenuto  Cellini  face  down- 
ward with  a  severe  gesture.  But  that  was  not  inexcusable; 
for  she  had  always  thought  he  was  Henry  VIII,  and  she  did  not 
approve  of  him. 

At  half-past  nine  Dulcie  took  a  last  look  at  the  pictures  on 


O.   HENRY  497 

the  dresser,  turned  out  the  light,  and  skipped  into  bed.  It's 
an  awful  thing  to  go  to  bed  with  a  good-night  look  at  General 
Kitchener,  William  Muldoon,  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
and  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

This  story  really  doesn't  get  anywhere  at  all.  The  rest  of 
it  comes  later  —  sometime  when  Piggy  asks  Dulcie  again  to 
dine  with  him,  and  she  is  feeling  lonelier  than  usual,  and  General 
Kitchener  happens  to  be  looking  the  other  way;   and  then  — 

As  I  said  before,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing  near  a  crowd 
of  prosperous-looking  angels,  and  a  policeman  took  me  by  the 
wing  and  asked  if  I  belonged  with  them. 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "they  are  the  men  who  hired  working- 
girls,  and  paid  'em  five  or  six  dollars  a  week  to  live  on.  Are 
you  one  of  the  bunch?" 

"Not  on  your  immortality,"  said  I.  "I'm  only  the  fellow 
that  set  fire  to  an  orphan  asylum,  and  murdered  a  blind  man  for 
his  pennies." 


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